


Dies Irae

by iamthegps



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, My First AO3 Post, Nothing explicit, Off-screen Rape/Non-con, no romance just friendship, so be nice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-13 09:15:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 21,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2145231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamthegps/pseuds/iamthegps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a stormy week, but the rain proves to be the least of the problems at Cowley CID when they find the city of Oxford targeted by a rapist. With him attacking like clockwork, the team finds themselves at a loss- how do you catch a man who's never seen? But then, just as they think that things can't get any worse, they do. The rapist strikes far too close to home and Morse and Jakes have ten hours to find him- before he shatters the lives of people they love.</p><p>(This story has no graphic content, and no description of sexual assault whatsoever, but all the same, it does talk about rape, so this is the warning. This story is also complete and will be updated every Friday.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said in the intro, this is a very non-graphic story. I don't go into any details because I'm writing about rape, not consensual sex, and I don't want to go into details because the subject matter is bad enough and I'm not even going to try to assume I could know what it would be like to be attacked (plus, well, I'm a bit of a prude and don't like writing sex scenes). So all told, non-graphic is the safest route.

"Sherrie, wait up!" The brunette girl ignored her friend, who was slipping after her across the wet sidewalks of Oxford University. "Sherrie!" Sherrie turned and huffed impatiently. 

"Mattie, you know I don't like being late and we're still ten minutes away."

"Well it's not my fault it's so wet out here, is it?" Mattie retorted, ears reddening. "So why don't you just calm down, alright?" 

"I'll calm down when you walk faster," Sherrie grumbled, though in a slightly softer tone. It did nothing, however, to ease Mattie's temper. 

"Well if you want to get there on-bloody-time why don't you just go alone?" she yelled, turning on her heel and slipping back the way she came. "And don't bother asking me along next week!" Sherrie glared after her friend's retreating back before she hurried down the blustery Oxford roads, alone.  
\-----  
Morse reached the office early that morning, shaking the water out of his hair in a manner so akin to a wet dog that he could practically hear his stepmother tut-tutting from home. Jakes, who had walked in right behind him, cursed loudly as he ended up in the splash zone. 

"Bloody hell, Morse, did you leave any of the water _outside_?" 

"I figured you needed waking up," Morse retorted, smirking slightly. "After all, weren't you planning on a long night?" Jakes stuck his tongue out; he had spent the whole of yesterday at the office bragging about the date he'd picked up.

"You're one to talk, aren't you?" he shot back. "And anyway she didn't pan out- she brought her _other_ boyfriend along." Morse snorted gracelessly. "Oh, laugh it up." 

"Alright. Don't blame her either; if I had to go on a date with you I'd probably bring someone else along as well."

"Well you're just full of wit today," Jakes returned, putting special emphasis on wit- and the word he'd intended to replace it. The two men fell into a slightly uncomfortable silence as they waited for Thursday to arrive. Morse slipped into a bit of a trance, thinking about music, and nearly hit the roof when Jakes' phone rang. Biting back a snort, the sergeant snatched up the phone.

"Hello, this is Detective Sergeant Jakes." There was a pause. "No, Inspector Thursday's not in yet." The other end spoke again and the smile slid off of his face, replaces with a dark scowl. "We'll be right over and Inspector Thursday will join us as soon as possible." He hung up the phone rather more violently than necessary and stood up, putting his coat back on.

"Who was that?" Morse asked, standing up as well. Jakes was busy scrawling a message, which he stuck on Thursday's door. 

"Hospital," he bit out on the way to the car. "There's been a rape."  
\-----  
They entered the hospital, flashed their IDs, and were directed up to the second floor, room 213. A WPC met them at the door, explaining softly that the victim was asleep right now, but had been conscious earlier when she was examined and treated by a Dr. Naomi Harrison. "Where is Dr. Harrison now?" Jakes asked.

"She left a few minutes ago but said she should be back soon. I... think it would be best to wait outside, sir," she said when the men made for 213's door. 

"Why's that?"

"She's, uh, not too comfortable alone with men right now. Once Dr. Harrison is with you it should be okay." Both men backed away from the door, looking as though it had grown fangs and hissed at them, and took their seats on the plastic chairs stationed in the hall. The WPC slipped quietly back into the room to wake the victim. The silence between the two men was visible with tension, but for once it wasn't an argument that had caused it. 

There were very few things cops hated more than murderers, but rapists were one of them.

The stairwell door clanked open and a woman they presumed to be Dr. Harrison made a beeline for them, followed by Thursday, who had arrived at the office only moments after they left. "Have you spoken to her yet?" he asked, keeping his voice down under the nurses' threats of quiet. 

"No sir, the WPC warned us to wait for Dr. Harrison," Morse told him. "Apparently she's... not reacting well to being alone with men right now."

"That's not at all surprising," the doctor spoke up. "Maybe tomorrow or the day after, but right now she's still in shock and slightly confused. I'll go in with you." They filed in through the door. The victim's name was Sherrie Carter, twenty one, who had been going to a dance club meeting with a friend. 

"What is your friend's name?" Thursday asked, beginning the interview.

"Matilda Kaye," Sherrie replied. "We, I think I remember arguing about something, but it's all so fuzzy."

"That's alright, we'll ask her about it later. Just keep going," Thursday reassured her. 

"Well... I think, I mean I must have passed out or something because the next time I woke up it was getting light out. He-" Her voice faltered but she breathed in deeply and continued. "He kept me blindfolded the whole time but I could see the light change when he opened the door." Jakes and Morse shared a look. Sherrie had to have been out for almost twelve hours to have woken to daylight. It was more likely she had been drugged than knocked out. 

It rapidly became clear that they wouldn't get much out of Sherrie. She couldn't recollect any of the moments before she was taken, and since she'd been blindfolded she couldn't describe her attacker. 

"Did you recognize his voice?" She shook her head. 

"No, not right off. He barely spoke and I still felt really ill from whatever it was that knocked me out."

"What can you tell us about the place you were kept?" 

"Um, I think it was some kind of warehouse or maybe a storage place. The roof was all metal- I could hear the rain beating on it." She twisted the hospital blanket, balling it up in her hands. "When I woke up- the floor was cement, and I was handcuffed. Around a pipe or something I think." Her voice died off and the only sound in the room was the scratching of Thursday's pen on his notebook. 

"Is there anything else you might remember, Miss Carter?" Morse asked. "Could you hear traffic?" Sherrie shook her head mutely. None of them wanted to ask the next question and they _knew_ they didn't want to hear the answer but luckily for them Dr. Harrison made a decision.

"How about I give you a copy of the medical report, Inspector Thursday? I think that would be better all around, if that's alright with you Sherrie?" The woman nodded hastily, glad to be offered an out. The specifics of what happened would be hard enough to tell anybody, there was simply no way she could tell three strange men every detail of what had happened.

"That should do just fine, doctor," Thursday replied. He was glad that he wouldn't have to put the poor woman through even more than she'd already endured by having to recount the rape itself. "We're almost done here, Miss Carter, and then we'll leave you be. Can you tell us what happened afterwards?"

He hesitated slightly before 'afterwards', trying to make it as gently phrased as possible. "He- uh, he took the handcuffs off and he pulled me into the trunk of a car. We drove for a bit, and at first it was really bumpy but then he stopped and took me out. He told me-" Her voice faltered again and she curled inward slightly, shielding herself from the outside. "He told me if I took off the blindfold before the car pulled away, he'd kill me. I waited until he'd gone and took it off. I was in some back alley, I don't know where. An old man found me and took me here." 

"Thank you very much, Miss Carter. That's all we need for now. You just rest and get better." It was a tall order, but it was all Thursday had to offer her that wouldn't sound completely like a hollow platitude. He looked to his subordinates and jerked his head toward the door. They followed him out into the empty hallway.

"Well." Thursday said it as a sentence, not a starter. A few more moments of tense silence reigned as each man tried to get his wits back about him before Thursday broke it, back in command mode. "Morse, you stay here and get the medical exam from Dr. Harrison; find out what the old man's name is and interview him as well. Jakes, you come with me. We'll go talk to Matilda Kaye. Morse, we'll come back and pick you up when we're done."

A matching pair of 'yes sir's met him and he turned and left, followed by Jakes. Morse waited outside Sherrie's hospital room for Dr. Harrison, tapping his foot anxiously. There was always the distinct possibility that this was a one-off, that it was just some pervert who would move on to another town or stop entirely, but his gut was telling him that wasn't the case. They needed to catch this guy. Fast.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroes get summarily nowhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, I'm back with chapter two of Dies Irae. Not a whole lot to say this time, except for thanks for y'all's lovely responses to chapter one, especially to TheMuchTooMerryMaiden, who taught me how to italicize things. Once more, feedback is appreciated, and enjoy chapter two. (Also, props to anyone who recognizes the show I reference)
> 
> ^-^

The wiper blades were working furiously against the near-gale pounding down on the windscreen but the two men in the Jag were still left with moments of nothing but blurriness. A quick stop by the station had given them Matilda Kaye's address and fortunately it was only a couple of miles from the hospital, near one of the colleges. 

They parked as close to the dorms as they could and made a break for the entryway, jogging to stay as dry as possible. "Lovely weather," Jakes remarked sourly, running his fingers through his now-dripping hair.

"At least it isn't snowing," was all Thursday deigned to add to the discussion. He had a strict 'no talking about the weather in conversation' policy. They knocked on the door, which was promptly opened by the porter- who was suitably wary at the sight of two men trying to enter a women's dormitory. They pulled their IDs and showed them to the man, who let them in.

"We're here to speak to Matilda Kaye," Thursday told him. "Is she in, do you know?" The porter nodded.

"Yeah, she came back yesterday evening and she's not left yet today." The porter, who seemed like a chatty fellow, appeared to want to say more to them but Thursday quickly deflected his attempts and he and Jakes made their way to Matilda's room. The door was opened by a diminutive girl with long blonde hair.

"Yes? Can I help you?" 

"Are you Matilda Kaye?" Jakes asked her. She nodded, visibly confused. "This is Detective Inspector Thursday, and I'm Detective Sergeant Jakes. May we come in?"

"Sure, sure, of course you can." She pulled the door open and let the two men inside. The apartment was immaculately clean, if a little bit on the shabby side like most every student apartment was. "Would you like some tea?" she asked, hurrying over to the kitchen. "I just got some water boiling." Before either man could tell her not to trouble herself with it she was coming back over, cups in hand. 

Thursday interrupted her nervous chatter. "We'd like to speak to you about a friend of yours, Sherrie Carter." Matilda looked at them, wide-eyed.

"She's alright, isn't she? Has something happened to her? Oh my God, please tell me she's not dead!"

"She's alive, Miss Kaye, and she'll recover."

"Recover? Recover from _what_?" 

"She was raped, Miss Kaye." Matilda put a hand over her mouth, eyes going as wide as saucers.

"What? How could- when did this happen?" 

"She was kidnapped shortly before eight yesterday evening." 

"Oh my God. That's right after we fought."

"Actually, Miss Kaye," Thursday continued, "we were hoping to talk to you about that. It appears that Miss Carter was drugged with something, and she doesn't remember much from the couple of hours before. What exactly was your fight about?" Matilda shook her head rapidly, ears turning red.

"It was such a stupid, silly thing. She... well, Sherrie's very punctual and I'm really not." At Jakes' raised eyebrows and glance around the spotless apartment she managed to crack a smile. "Everyone has one thing they're bad about and I'm always late to things. Sherrie's normally really nice about it though."

"So why fight over it this time?" Jakes asked her. 

"Sherrie was really high-strung about this meeting last night. You see, it's a dancers' club; nothing to do with the college, it's just some people who meet up for fun. A couple of months ago, I don't really remember when, she met a guy there and they started dating." The two detectives shared a glance; Sherrie Carter had made no mention of a boyfriend when they'd spoken to her. Matilda caught their look and realized what it meant. 

"Oh, they're not dating anymore. That's probably why you didn't know about him before."

"Why did they split up?"

"Well, Trevor has... a reputation, I guess you could say. A few days ago Sherrie found out that he was living up to it and she near screamed him to death- not that he didn't deserve it, of course. We were all quite proud of her."

"Does Trevor have a last name?" Thursday cut in, flipping open his notebook.

"Barkley, Trevor Barkley- like off that American TV show. He goes to Merton College. Like I said, she met him at the dancers' club and they haven't spoken since the breakup. She was real nervous about seeing him again and that's why we ended up fighting."

"What road were you going along?" 

"High Street; the club meets in the big room at an inn just off the road, the Royal Heights, I think is the name. We were only a few streets away when I left. I never thought..."

"And you wouldn't have," Thursday interrupted her sternly, seeing where her train of thought was going. "This wasn't your fault for leaving her. Just out of necessity, though, we'll have to know what time you got back. The porter already confirmed that you were in all night." Matilda nodded.

"Yes, I was working on an essay for one of my classes. I think I got back around eight ten or fifteen. It took longer because of the rain; everything was soaked. Oh, I'm just so glad she's not dead. Do you know when she'll be out of hospital?" 

"No, unfortunately, but we'll tell her you're worried the next time we see her. She might give you a call." After giving their goodbyes to Matilda, the men jogged back to the car and drove a few blocks away to Merton College, looking for Trevor Barkley. He wasn't in his dorm, but his roommate was, and he assured them that Trevor would be back around two. Out of places to go, Jakes and Thursday drove back to Cowley, stopping by the hospital to pick up Morse. 

"Have you got the medical exam?" The soggy constable held up a folder.

"That and the statement from Mr. Bannister, the old man who found her. He didn't have much to give us- heard a car screeching off and went to see what was going on. As soon as he saw Sherrie Carter he took her to the hospital. Didn't see the car or the assailant." There was a matching groan from the other two men.

"Well, we may have hit on something." Thursday told him about their conversation with Matilda Kaye and Trevor Barkley's dubious reputation. "He wasn't in when we stopped by; flatmate said he'd be back around two. You and Jakes are going to speak to him after lunch." The surprised look on both men's faces left no doubt that _they_ hadn't actually been told this before.

The rain tapped against the windows as they set up the blackboard at the office, taping up a picture of Sherrie Carter. The medical exam read more or less how they had expected it to. Bruising and mild lacerations around the wrists from the handcuffs, no external physical injuries, and- in a manner that would make envious the driest of medical texts- 'evidence of forcible sexual activity'. Morse couldn't help but think that was a rather understated way of putting it. 

Two o' clock hit and Morse and Jakes got into the Jag, heading back to Merton to find Trevor. This time when they knocked the door was opened by a handsome man in his mid-twenties. He smiled at them pleasantly but Morse could sense a cocky sort of arrogance about him; he was a man who was used to people being charmed by him. "Can I help you?" They flashed their badges. 

"I'm Detective Sergeant Jakes and this is Detective Constable Morse. You're Trevor Barkley, I presume?" The smile vanished replaced with a sightly sour frown.

"Yeah, and I haven't done anything illegal." 

"We're not saying you have," Jakes replied evenly. "We're just here to ask you a few questions."

"This is a bad time." Jakes lifted one thin eyebrow.

"Well, that's a pity; we'll try and make it quick then, shall we?" Morse managed to disguise his snort as a cough only through supreme effort and tailed Jakes into the apartment. "We understand you used to date a woman by the name of Sherrie Carter, goes to St. Hilda's."

"Yeah, I did but then she dumped me and screamed at me for an hour." 

"Her friend says it was because you cheated on her," Morse said levelly. 

"Okay maybe I did, but it's not like we were _serious_ or anything. It was just a fling. And then she went and embarrassed me in front of half the college." He stopped, eyes narrowing. "Why are you asking about her, anyway?"

"Miss Carter was attacked yesterday evening on her way to the dancers' club you both go to."

"And you think it was me? Did she tell you that or did that little blond friend of hers? I was at the club last night, you can ask anyone who was there."

"What time did you arrive?" Jakes asked, totally unphased by Trevor's outburst.

"About ten minutes after eight; I was late leaving, and my flatmate can back me up on that."

"And afterwards?" 

"I, uh..." His ears turned slightly red and he tugged at his collar. "I had _company_."

"Here or at hers?" 

"Hers. Her name was Penny Miller." 

"We'll need her address." After they got it, the two left and headed to the Royal Heights Inn, which was not particularly tall and didn't look very regal. The bartender directed them to the manager's office. He was a short pudgy man with round glasses that magnified his eyes, making him look perpetually surprised. 

"Yes, yes, the dancers' club meets here every week, in the large room off to the back."

"Are there many of them in it?" Morse asked.

"No, not too many. Fifteen or twenty, I should say. They always make their payments for room usage on time and they never leave the place a mess like some others do."

"Who makes the payments?"

"Oh, that would be the club's president, Ronald Marker. He's a very reliable young man."

"Just one more questions, sir," Jakes cut in. "Do you happen to know if a young woman called Sherrie Carter made it here last night?" The manager shook his head.

"No, not that I can recall. The only one I know by name is Mr. Marker."

"Thank you sir." Back at the station, they filled Thursday in on everything they'd found out.

"Okay, we need to find Ronald Marker and Penny Miller. If they can confirm Trevor's alibi, well, we're back to square one. If not..." He shrugged. "We may have to pay Mr. Barkley another visit." A phone call to Penny Miller affirmed that Trevor had indeed spent the night there, before leaving around six thirty in the morning- early enough for him to have raped Sherrie Carter. 

Ronald Marker had gone out of town, down to London to visit relatives. He wouldn't be back until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest; a death in the family, apparently. 

Morse was distinctly dissatisfied when he left the office that evening. They were no closer to having a viable suspect for Sherrie's rapist then they had been when the hospital had called them that morning. He spent the evening pacing his flat, before he finally fell asleep to the Brandenburg Concertos. He was up early the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Assuming I haven't yet driven you screaming into the hills, chapter three will be up and posted next Friday. The story's now more like 95% complete and clocking in at a little over 22100 words so don't worry, if you like it there's a lot more coming. Good thing, bad thing, that's up to you... Also, I'm just warning you now, my geography will be very, very imprecise. Because I live in Oklahoma, which is about as 'not-Oxford' as you can possibly get. But that shouldn't present too much of an issue. I'm going to shut up and go to sleep now because it's nearing up on 1:30 and my eyes are having trouble focusing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where they actually do get somewhere, but it's definitely not where they want to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Friiiiidaaaay, and that means more of this! I'm going to assume since you're still here that 'this' is probably not too bad and maybe actually worth reading *crosses fingers*. As usual, not a whole lot to say, except that I hope you had a good week, have a good week, and leave me some kind of sign indicating that you were actually here. Nudgenudgewinkwink.

Ronald Marker got back into town at four p.m. that day, where he was met by Thursday and Morse. "We wanted to ask you a few questions about Sherrie Carter; we're told she regularly attends the dancers' club of which you're the president." Ronald nodded.

"Yes, she's one of the most regular members; that's why I thought it was so odd that she didn't show up to our last meeting. It was the day before yesterday. She's not in trouble is she?"

"No, she's not," Thursday told him. "Actually, I'm sorry to say she was attacked on the way to the Royal Heights. We're actually here to ask you about another member, Trevor Barkley."

"Sherrie's ex?" Ronald sounded incredulous. "You don't think he had anything to do with it?" 

"We're just pursuing a line of inquiry," Thursday replied evenly. "He claims to have shown up ten minutes late." Ronald let out a bark of laughter.

"Ten minutes? Try thirty." Morse shared a glance with Thursday. Trevor had definitely told them yesterday that he'd shown up at eight ten. He had lied. 

"When did he leave?"

"When the rest of us did, around ten. He stayed and helped clean up, actually. I was talking with him and he mentioned that he was glad Sherrie wasn't there; apparently he had a date with some new girl."

"Penny Miller?" Morse asked quickly.

"Yes, that was her, although I doubt he had dating on his mind when he left." Well, Trevor's reputation truly had spread far and wide. "If there's nothing else, I have to meet with my professor about the work I missed yesterday." 

"No, that will be all for now, thank you." Thursday left, trailed by Morse. As they walked to the car, Thursday started thinking out loud. "So, Sherrie Carter embarrasses Trevor Barkley and a couple of days later she's kidnapped and assaulted, and then we find out Barkley lied about his alibi."

"Do you want to pick him up, sir?" 

"Yes, let's." But they had no such luck. "What do you mean 'he's not here'?" Thursday burst out, frustrated. Trevor's flatmate looked at them nervously, acutely aware of the fact that he'd said the wrong thing. 

"Um, he took his new girl out for the day. Down to London, I think, but I don't really remember what he said. He did mention that he'd be back tomorrow morning." Thursday pinched the bridge of his nose. Their one and only suspect had just swanned out of town with his girl of the week and left them with nothing to go on. The atmosphere at the station was dour that day and nobody on the case went home in a good mood. 

The next morning they headed out to pick up Trevor Barkley. He put up a regular fuss, shouting indignantly and demanding to be released. It didn't do him any good. They left him to cool off in the interrogation room for a while before Thursday headed in. "I demand that you let me go!"

"No can do, I'm afraid. You lied to us, Mr. Barkley."

"I didn't lie to you about anything, detective," he replied, putting a rather unfortunate emphasis on the word and leaving no doubt that he would rather be calling Thursday something else. 

"Oh really? So was the clock at the Royal Heights Inn just twenty or so minutes off then? Because you told my men that you got there at eight ten, while the president of the club swears you didn't show up until eight thirty."

"If you must know, I had a flat tire on the way and had to replace it. I didn't think it was particularly important to mention." Thursday visibly resisted the urge to groan.

"Frankly Mr. Barkley I would much prefer you to leave the decision of what is and isn't important to us, not take it upon yourself. You realize that you are now our primary suspect."

"What?!" Trevor yelped. "I didn't like Sherrie, not after she dumped me, but I wouldn't hurt her! You've got to believe me!" 

"After you lied to us about your whereabouts and then left town the next day? You might want to think hard about who else could back you up, Mr. Barkley, because you're not looking too good right now." Morse stuck his head in the door, looking grim.

"Sir." Thursday stepped out of the room, leaving Trevor behind him. "There's been another rape." His boss scowled heavily.

"Has she been interviewed?" 

"Not yet, but she has bruises and lacerations from handcuffs just like Sherrie Carter- and no one has seen her since yesterday evening."

"So, Trevor Barkley might actually be innocent. Let's go to the hospital, Morse."

"What about Barkley?"

"I'll have Jakes keep interviewing him just in case." The new victim, Patricia Powell, had a story that was almost identical to Sherrie Carter's. No memory from the hours before her abduction, she woke up to daylight, and then she was raped and dumped in a street, blindfolded. 

There was no doubt about it. Sherrie and Patricia had been raped by the same man. And it wasn't Trevor Barkley. Thursday called Jakes from the hospital, telling him to let Trevor go. "So, we're dealing with a serial rapist. Bloody fantastic," he grumbled as he hung up the phone. In the lobby they met again with Dr. Harrison, who confirmed that Sherrie and Patricia had nearly identical injuries. 

"We're still trying to figure out what the women were given to knock them unconscious, but it's a slow process," she told them. "However the hospital partners with one of the college chemistry labs, so we'll have the components of the drug back to you as fast as possible."

"Thank you doctor. Let us know as soon as you find anything out." Their next stop was St. Stephen's Catholic Church. Their priest was the one who found Patricia when he was taking a shortcut to reach the home of an elderly parishioner. 

"Did you see the car that dumped her?" Morse asked. The priest shook his head.

"No, no, I gathered that she had been there for at least a couple of minutes before I came along. The poor girl was terrified, and so dizzy I practically had to carry her back to the church. I called for an ambulance from there."

"Dizzy?"

"Yes, she could hardly stand up, in fact. At first, I must admit that I thought she was drunk, but then I realized that it was something else. There was no alcohol on her breath, and she was all bruised around the wrists. The poor girl will be okay, right?"

"Yes, she'll be fine sir."

"Could you show us the spot where you found her?" Thursday asked. "The way it's been raining I'd bet good money that the tires left an impression. Someone might be able to give us something from that." 

"Certainly, Inspector, just follow me." The priest led them through a small, mostly overgrown path that lead to a dirt road frequented only by the garbage collectors. "It was right here, she was lying in the middle of the road." Thursday scanned the ground, easily spotting the deep fissures made by the bin collectors, and then finally found what he was looking for. 

"Here we are, then. These are fresh, and they certainly weren't made by the garbage truck." The tracks were about four feet apart and the treads had a geometric pattern. Morse, not being much of a car aficionado, couldn't possibly have told what type of vehicle it came from, but that was why he was in CID and not forensics. No doubt there was someone there who knew that sort of thing by heart; forensics had some strange blokes.

"Morse, you stay at the end and make sure no one tries to drive down this road. I'll go and call for forensics." Smart and precocious as Morse might have been, he was still a DC, and it was still soggy and wet outside and Thursday didn't want to stand around in it when he could, well, not be standing around in it. After all, he figured, that's what subordinates were for wasn't it? He went back down the foot trail to the church and phoned the forensics people. 

Once they got there they bustled to work, taking photographs and measurements and all sorts of other things and the two detectives made their exit, leaving the other men to their work. "Do you think they'll be able to tell us anything, sir?"

"You'd be surprised what they can do these days, Morse. More than you'd expect, probably. Although as long as they give us _anything_ it'll be more than we've got now." The frustration rang out in Thursday's voice and Morse knew that the case was getting to him. A wife and a daughter ensured that he had no spare sympathy for any man who would hurt a woman. "We might as well go back to the station. There's nothing else to be done here."  
\-----  
The only development they got for the rest of that day was a phone call late in the afternoon from Dr. Harrison. "We haven't got all the answers for you, I'm afraid, but we've identified a few of the chemicals, all of which are consistent with sedatives, evidently particularly powerful ones in this case." Thursday frowned into the receiver.

"Where could he get a hold of these sedatives, doctor? At a pharmacy?"

"It's possible, but I'm inclined to think otherwise. Unless they were given an over-large dosage it would have to be a particularly powerful drug; I'd say it's more likely he's getting hold of them from a hospital. I'll ask around for you and see if anyone's reported drugs missing- though to be honest some of them are much better about keeping tabs on their medications than others." 

"Thank you, doctor. I appreciate your help." Thursday hung up and relayed the call to Morse and Jakes, who had been watching him the whole time. The sergeant frowned thoughtfully.

"D'you really think he's getting them from a hospital? I thought they kept all their drugs under lockup these days."

"Most of them, yes, but not all," Morse answered, remembering asking that exact same question of Monica once. "They only lock up the things addicts are likely to steal- and not a lot of addicts steal sleeping pills, apparently."

"Well if he's not getting them from a hospital than where is he getting them from?" Thursday asked. "Dr. Harrison doesn't think he's getting them from a chemist's; says they're most likely too strong for that."

"He might have nicked them from a research lab," Morse suggested. "There are plenty of those around Oxford. But they also have really tight security too, just to make sure that sort of thing doesn't happen." Thursday nodded slowly, deep in thought.

"Jakes, Morse, I want you to go and take a look around Patricia Powell's house. See if the neighbors spotted anything off in the last few days. This guy obviously has a plan and he had to have been watching her beforehand." Patricia lived with her parents in a small, well-kept suburb of Oxford that rang of normality. Not the sort of place one would think a rapist would be searching. Morse looked around inside the house while Jakes went to find the street's resident little old lady.

"Little old ladies are better for information than anything else you'll find," he remarked to Morse as he headed off. "If it needs to be known, they know it." Evidently his quest had succeeded because when Morse poked his head out of the upstairs window Jakes was nowhere to be found. There was nothing useful in Patricia's apartment, just stuff that would tell them what they already knew- she was a bartender who had been working late before her memory blurred out just like Sherrie Carter's did. She didn't attend the university and had never met the other woman before in her life.

Morse locked the house behind him and leaned against the car, huffing out a breath and taking advantage of the fresh air. After a couple of minutes in reverie, Jakes came toward him. "Anything?" Morse shook his head.

"Nothing we didn't know. You?" 

"Well, I found the little old lady and I can now tell you with absolute certainty that the only thing of note that's gone on in this neighborhood for the last two weeks has been Patricia's neighbor across the way putting her house up for sale." The sarcasm fell from Jakes' voice as he seated himself in the car. Morse got in beside him and the two fell into silence as they headed back to another grim evening, getting nowhere fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Trevor the Man-Ho is actually innocent. Also, fun fact, somewhere within this chapter I dropped a clue that'll be important later. So if you guess it, keep it to yourself. XD See you guys next Friday, whence shall come chapter four.
> 
> ^-^


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is progress, both in the case and in a friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all thought I forgot about this didn't you? XD I didn't (for a bit at least) but I haven't been able to breathe til now much less post. The usual rules apply: I love comments, and I'm a sucker for... y'know, people actually reading my stuff. Not that I'm suggesting anything. ;) No one spotted the clue in the last chapter, but truthfully if I hadn't written it I probably wouldn't have either. And no, I'm still not telling you what it is. You will find out. Eventually. But not for a bit though. :P Anywho, you guys enjoy and I'll be seeing you next Friday! ^-^

Monday morning dawned with a watery touch of sunlight that was better than anything they'd had for the last week. Morse just hoped (a little foolishly, he thought) that maybe that meant they would get somewhere with this case. At this point all three men were frustrated, fed up, and more than ready to catch this bastard. He got himself ready as quickly as possible and went to pick up Thursday. "Good morning sir," he said halfheartedly. 

"Morning, Morse." The ride to work was unnaturally silent and they arrived at the station sooner than usual, though not by much. Once Jakes had raced in Thursday stood in front of the blackboard. "Alright," he told them. "I've got a report here from a psychologist analyzing what makes this guy tick. He thinks that it's more than likely the perpetrator will stick to a time frame, a routine."

"So that means... the next girl will be taken tomorrow evening," Jakes worked out, grimacing. 

"That's what thy psychologist thinks, at the least," Thursday answered him. "And later on a man from forensics is on his way to give us everything they've got on those tire tracks outside of St. Stephen's. Apparently they've gotten quite a bit from their measurements. Until then, let's work on finding out what- or who- Sherrie and Patricia have in common. The report also says that he's not taking people at random, he's definitely choosing them beforehand."

Around lunchtime a PC knocked on the partition and handed them the report from forensics. Jakes read it out. "Apparently the tires were a dead end; they figured out what brand of tire it was and it's the most common one in the county. Then there's a lot of math, but it says that they've worked out the dimensions and they're pretty sure he's driving a Morris Minor." 

"So basically a car that you could find a dozen of on any given street in Oxford," Thursday grumbled. "Still, it's more than we've had yet. At least now we can give the uniforms something to look out for." A telephone call to the motor vehicle registry revealed that there were no less than three hundred Morris Minors in the city of Oxford alone- not exactly an encouraging figure.

"Why couldn't the bugger drive a Reliant Regal or something?" Jakes grumbled under his breath as he hung up the phone. "No, it always has to be the most mundane, bog-standard thing they can get their hands on." Morse shrugged slightly from his near permanent hunched position. He had been tasked with going through the womens' files and listing down anything at all the two had in common. As it turned out, basically nothing.

Sherrie Carter was originally from London and had moved to Oxford to attend St. Hilda's College. Patricia Powell was Oxfordshire born and raised, a bartender living at home with her parents who'd never gone to university in her life. They were different ages, weren't related in any way, and had never met each other in any social capacity at all. They had no interests in common and listed no shared friends. By all appearances they had been picked at random, but Morse knew that wasn't the case.

Monday passed and turned into Tuesday. Morse woke up with a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach, knowing that the rapist's next victim would be taken today and there was essentially nothing they could do about it. Thursday had told Bright everything they knew, and he'd issued a warning to all the uniforms to watch during their patrols for men driving Morris Minors who had women with them, but it was a long shot that anything would be found. 

However, they did have one development that day, one which took them a large step closer to being able to crack this case in time. Around three, Thursday came out of his office, car keys in hand. "Dr. Harrison telephoned me. She wants to meet us at one of the research labs. Apparently she's got something big for us." 

They met Dr. Harrison at the door, practically forced to duck to the sides to avoid the steam coming out of her ears. "Inspector Thursday," she greeted him somewhat irritably. 

"What have you got for us Dr. Harrison?"

"Come with me and I'll show you." She led them through a slightly labyrinthine set of hallways that culminated in a door plastered with a warning to keep your goggles on when working with chemicals. "We finally got the full report back from the chemistry lab on the makeup of the drug he's using on these women and it seemed alarmingly similar, so I went back and checked a hunch." She stopped in front of a blackboard covered in chalk drawings of... something to do with chemistry.

"This," Dr. Harrison continued, "is the chemical structure of a drug that this research lab has been working on. Assuming it passes all the necessary tests it's going to be used as a powerful pain killer, mostly for hospital patients who are recovering from major surgeries. Guess what has the exact same chemical components?" It was a rhetorical question. 

"But how could he get his hands on this drug?" Thursday asked. "Is it being tested in the hospitals?" Dr. Harrison shook her head. 

"Not even close. We're still in the very early stages of work, and we've only tested it on rats yet. It doesn't- or at least _shouldn't_ exist outside of our lab. And somehow your guy got his hands on at least two pills." 

"Don't you have security?" Jakes cut in incredulously. Dr. Harrison looked scandalized.

"Of course we do. During the day there are so many people in here that it would be impossible to pocket any of the drugs and at night we have a security guard on both doors."

"The same men each night?" Thursday asked sharply. She nodded. "We'll need their names. And the names of all the men who might possibly have access to this room." Dr. Harrison frowned. 

"I'm afraid that's going to be a rather long list, Inspector. We have students from multiple colleges and physician-scientists, not to mention the staff. I'll get started on it as soon as possible. In the meantime, I'll take you to talk to Benny Heartz. He's got something to tell you about."

Benny was a twitchy, nervous young man who spent most of his time pushing his overlarge glasses back up his nose. "Are you here about the theft?" he asked before Thursday could start speaking. The three detectives shared a glance.

"Theft, Mr. Heartz?" The man nodded.

"Yeah, I didn't even notice it until now but then I wasn't looking for it so I guess really-"

"Benny!" Dr. Harrison cut in sharply. "Just tell them, no rambling."

"Oh, sorry," he replied contritely. "Well, since there are so few pills, I usually keep a count on them before I store them back up, just to be cautious. A few days ago I got back in the morning and noticed that there were two missing. At the time I didn't think anything of it- I figured I'd just dropped them or something like that. This morning, though, we're down five, and I know that they were there when I stored the drug back up last night."

Dr. Harrison cursed under her breath, rounding on Benny. "Why didn't you say something before?!" He quailed, looking down at his lap.

"I'm really sorry, doctor, I just didn't think it was anything. People lose one or two of something all the time. I didn't realize they'd been stolen." His remorse seemed totally genuine and Dr. Harrison backed down a little.

"Oh, it's alright, Benny. You're right about that."

"So he's been giving each girl one pill," Morse reasoned out. "And now that he's stolen five more-"

"-he's got at least five more targets," Jakes finished. "But how's he getting them to take it without a struggle?" To their surprise, Benny spoke up timidly.

"Um, if he crushed the pills and mixed them in with a drink or something like that the effect would be faster since the pill wouldn't have to dissolve. It could activate much quicker."

"So maybe he met Sherrie Carter and Patricia Powell somewhere and offered to take them for a drink. He slips the crushed up drug in and..." Thursday let his voice trail off. It would have been so easy. Patricia worked as a bartender, and Sherrie had been on her way to an inn. Just a simple, friendly offer- that wasn't so friendly. "Who could have access to the research lab?"

"Anyone with a key to the building," Dr. Harrison replied. "We're just a uni lab, so while we do all the small-scale, preparatory research once we've done that we pass it off to one of the larger drug companies. They take care of all the rest and market it. We don't have nearly the same level of security that they do, I'm afraid. I've asked, but the university says it's too costly." Her facial expression left no doubt about her feelings on the matter.

"Okay, get that list of names to us as soon as possible. Who are the night guards?" She gave Thursday their names and a copy of their personnel files; a quick phone call put one of them in the clear- he had been home since seven both days, asleep with his wife. The second one said that he went to the same cafe for breakfast every morning and gave them the name. It was only a street away from the lab.

"Morse, you take a photo and go check that out; Jakes, you go work on getting the access list; Dr. Harrison, could you tell me more about this drug?"  
\-----  
It took less than a full minute to walk to the cafe, a slightly dingy little 24-hour joint. While his feet might very well have stuck to the floor, the employees seemed friendly enough and readily verified the second guard's alibi. He got there every morning once he got off work and always stayed for at least an hour just to shoot the breeze. 

"He lives alone and all that, and I don't think he's got a girlfriend, so he spends a lot of time flirting with the morning waitresses," the manager informed him. "He hasn't missed a day for at least the past month." 

Morse went back to the lab and found Thursday. "The other guard's out too. He's been at that cafe every morning, including the morning of both of the rapes."

"Well then, it has to be one of the people on the access list. About how many people would you say that is, doctor?" Dr. Harrison puffed out a breath, running up the numbers in her head.

"All told, about forty-five, maybe thirty to thirty-five of them men. Not a lot of women here," she remarked wryly. "It gets a tad lonesome at times." Thursday laughed.

"You should try the police station then, doctor. I've overheard several of the WPCs compare it to living in a gents' toilet."

"I would imagine," came the dry reply. The briefly lighthearted mood went back to being serious as Jakes came hurrying up.

"I got the list, sir. Thirty-three men could possibly have access to the lab, including one name I found rather interesting." He presented the list to Thursday with a raised eyebrow, pointing to one down near the end. 

"Well, Morse, look who it is." He passed the list to Morse, who scanned down until he saw the name that stuck out like a sore thumb.

"Ronald Marker..." 

"Why don't we go have a chat with him, eh?" To their good fortune, Ronald was still at his apartment and let them in readily. If he sensed that they were suspicious, he did a good job of hiding it.

"So, to what do I owe this visit, Inspector?" 

"Have you ever met Patricia Powell?" He frowned.

"No, can't say that I have. Why?"

"Because she was attacked by the same man who attacked Sherrie Carter, and your name came up on a list of people with access to the drug that was used to render both of them unconscious." Ronald's face changed from shocked to confused to angry as he realized just what Thursday was implying. 

"I had nothing to do with what happened to either one of them! So I work in the lab, but there must be thirty other men who work there too. And besides, I have an alibi for Sherrie's at least. I always arrive at the Royal Heights at seven thirty to pay for the room ahead of time. You can call the manager and ask him."

"We will," Thursday replied. "Tell me, what sort of car do you drive, Mr. Marker?"

"A Renault," the young man answered, sounding confused by the change of topic. "Now if that's all..."

"For now, yes," Thursday told him. "But, Mr. Marker, I would suggest that you stay home tonight, preferably in someone else's company." 

"Yes," Ronald replied, looking shaken, "yes, I think I might just do that." The detectives went back to the car, stopping by the Royal Heights on the way to Cowley. The manager was able to assure them that yes, Ronald Marker did in fact come in early every week to pay for the use of the big room and he'd paid that Thursday as well.

"It makes sense though," Morse remarked as they got back in the car. "Sherrie said that she didn't recognize her attacker's voice, and if it was Ronald she'd have known." Jakes blew out a ferocious, frustrated sigh.

"First Trevor Barkley and now Ronald Marker. How many times are we going to strike out before we find this guy?" No one responded and no response was expected. It was a few minutes after five when they reached the station and the mood was somber but determined. Once this guy had drugged his next victim and taken her to... wherever he took them, he'd go to ground and it would be almost impossible to find him that night. 

"Get started on the list; split it in half and check each man for criminal records, complaints, anything like that. Figure out if any of them drive a Morris as well, though it's possible that he could be borrowing it from a friend. I'm going to go talk to Bright." They got to work, Jakes taking the first sixteen of the remaining names, and Morse the last sixteen. 

Morse wished there were some way they could just put a name into... something, he guessed, and have it do all the looking up for them, because even with the two men splitting the files it still took them hours to figure out who each one was and then figure out whether or not the man had a criminal record. The end results were disappointing, but not surprising. 

"Well, I've got four with criminal records, two for petty theft, one for assault- he was in a bar fight- and one for delinquency," Morse reported.

"Three on mine, one breaking and entering and two more petty thefts." As it turned out, Oxford didn't have a tendency to enroll people with serious criminal records behind them. They took their results to Thursday, who hummed thoughtfully as he looked over them. 

"Let's talk to the four petty thefts and see if anyone convinced them to slip back into their old ways. I don't think we need to worry about the other three unless we find out that they drive Morris Minors."

"You think he might have had someone steal the drugs _for_ him?" Morse asked.

"It's possible; he's obviously planned the rest of it out well enough, I could see him taking a precaution in this area too." Morse went back to his desk and phoned the four men who had been arrested previously. All of them vehemently denied falling back into their old habits, especially once they were informed that having done so would have been aiding and abetting a rapist.

He was inclined to believe them, though. They'd all stolen things like watches and clothes (and, in one case, a metal helm. He didn't really want to know why); things that they intended for themselves, not to give to others. So, another dead end then. Bloody fantastic. He glanced over at the clock. Eight forty-five. They were just waiting for the next missing person call. He felt the sudden urge to punch something.

Across the room, Jakes was smoking what must have been his twelfth cigarette since he got there that morning and tapping his pencil rapidly against the paper pad next to his phone. The rest of him was nearly vibrating in time with it. Finally, after about thirty seconds of silence, he spoke. "We ought to call the records place and get started on the cars."

"They close at five," Morse responded. "I asked when we called them yesterday. But still, there can't be more than a handful of them who drive one specific type of car."

"You'd be surprised," Jakes responded. "It's a pretty popular model right now and you can buy them used too." He blew a long streamer of smoke into the air, leaning against the arms of his chair. "I really hate this bit- the waiting." Morse hummed a reply, gazing out the window. He hated this bit also. It felt like he was letting down Sherrie, Patricia, and the next victim as well. If only they could find out who this guy was. 

"The records office opens at nine every day," he remarked, hoping to alleviate their mutual distress. 

"Yeah, but it'll be too late by then won't it?" 

"Not for the next one." It rang decidedly hollow. Both men had, by unspoken agreement, decided to wait until the call came in before they thought about leaving for the night. They knew there was nothing more they could do until tomorrow, but that didn't stop them from waiting and wishing. Thursday had gone home already, at Win's insistence, and the two men kept their vigil in a silence that was less uncomfortable than they would have expected. Morse snorted softly as a silly, random though occurred to him.

"What so funny?" Jakes asked, looking at Morse somewhat warily. 

"Nothing, it's just... you and I had an actual civil conversation is all." Jakes arched an eyebrow.

"Well, miracles do happen, I guess." 

The phone rang.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a lot to say, really. It's been a slow week for me, at least. As always, please leave a comment and I'll see you back next week for chapter six. :) I hope you guys enjoy this one like you seem to be enjoying (or at least reading) the rest.
> 
> ^-^

The Royal Heights Inn was full to bursting when Morse stepped in the door at around nine thirty. He really, really needed a drink. 

The new girl was Andrea Myers, who more commonly went by Andy, as her distraught mother told them. She was due to have been home at eight after going over to study at a friend's house and at first her mother assumed she had just been running late. When, at nine, she called the friend and discovered that her daughter had left slightly over an hour ago she called the police. 

"Ah, Constable Morse," the round manager greeted him, smile dimming as he caught on to Morse's current mood. "No arrests yet, then?" He shook his head. 

"No, I'm afraid not sir."

"I read in the papers about that poor girl, the other victim. I'm glad you're here, constable, because I actually remembered something that might help you. I was going to hold off calling until tomorrow because I had assumed you had gone home." Morse looked around, noting the noisy evening crowd.

"Maybe we should go into your office to discuss this, sir." He followed the manager through the throng to his small office, shutting the door behind him and pulling out his notebook. "Now, what is it you remembered?"

"Well, it was the week before Sherrie Carter was attacked. I didn't know her by name, you see, but I knew that she was one of the club regulars. A few moments after she arrived another young man came in the door whom I didn't recognize at all. He spotted me and said that he was looking for a friend of a friend, a dark haired girl who'd just come in here. I told him yes, she was in the large room taking part in a club meeting."

"Did he say anything else?"

"Yes, he asked what the club was. At the time I thought it was merely curiosity and so I told him about how they meet in the large room every week to dance and socialize. I asked if he was going to be joining them, but all he said was 'maybe, thank you' and then he rushed off out the door. With all the business I deal with everyday I quite simply forgot about him until now."

"Did he give you his name?" The manager shook his head. "Could you describe him for me, please?" 

"He was rather nondescript, unfortunately, but he had brown hair and he was maybe three inches shorter than you, or more. I didn't store anything about him in my mind and after two and a half weeks..." He shrugged apologetically. "I'm truly sorry, constable, but I just don't remember anything else."

"That's alright, sir, you've helped us a great deal, I think," Morse replied hurriedly, standing up. "Thank you."

"Are you going to stay for a drink?"

"Not tonight, I'm afraid, I need to go talk to my boss. Besides, it looks like you've got plenty enough for business." 

"True, although it's still down for lunchtime. The salon next door put up for sale and moved to the other side of town, and we got a lot of customers from them during the day."

Morse hummed, hoping it would be enough of a response and left, hurrying through the dark roads to Thursday's house. He knocked rapidly on the door. Thursday pulled it open, looking utterly unsurprised to see Morse there.

"Come on in then, Win's just made tea. This is about the case, I take it?"

"Yes sir, I went by the Royal Heights and spoke with the manager." Morse relayed his findings, knowing that Thursday had a 'leave work at the door' rule but unwilling to wait until the morning. 

"Well, this should help us," Thursday remarked. "Not every man who works in that lab can be a brunette. We'll have to get over there tomorrow and look at their personnel files." Win bustled in, bringing tea with her, and the two fell into a companionable silence.

"I want this one over, Morse," Thursday finally muttered, puffing on his pipe and staring a hole through the wall. "I really want this one over."

"We'll find him, sir." Morse spoke with a measure of confidence he didn't quite possess. It was nearing ten when he finally got up to leave, only to have Thursday follow him to the door.

"I'll give you a lift back to your place, Morse. It's too late for you to be walking on your own out there; knowing your luck you'd trip and fall into a secret Roman-era tunnel used for drug smuggling." Morse gave a genuine laugh.

"Don't jinx me, sir." Morse reached his apartment disaster-free and undressed slowly, sitting on the edge of his bed with his chin resting on his hands. Finally, around one in the morning, he fell asleep. His alarm rang far earlier than he would have liked but he jerked out of his shallow sleep almost instantly.

He reached the police station at the same time as Thursday. Jakes, surprisingly, had beaten them both there. Thursday took a minute to sort out some files and then it was off to work. "Okay, I'll go to the hospital. You two go to the county records office and see if any of our guys drive a Morris. Once you're done with that go by the research lab and look through the personnel files. Narrow the list down to only the men with brown hair- not exactly an ID but a start. Morse, you tell him," he added when Jakes shot him a questioning look.

They split up, dropping Thursday off at the hospital and heading for the records office- only to find it closed off for the day due to construction. "You have got to be /fucking joking/," Jakes bit out harshly. His eyebrows creased down towards the bridge of his nose as he glared daggers at the building as though it had personally offended him. 

"Let's ask if there's any way they could still let us in. They might be able to manage something." The two detectives left the car, shutting the doors with more force than was strictly necessary. It was like fate was working against them at every turn on this case. In continuation with that theme, the office was locked up tight. There was no way they were getting in today.

"Maybe you can come back tomorrow," the foreman suggested, trying to be helpful.

"Yes, we'll see," Morse replied, trying not to sound too irritated. He and Jakes went back to the car, this time definitely shutting the doors with more force then necessary. "To the lab then, I guess." Jakes made a wordless reply and Morse decided to just keep his mouth shut until they got there. Neither man was in a good mood and the chances of replicating their civil conversation from the other day were slim to nil. 

They reached the lab at ten, just as it was opening, and tracked down the personnel files. "Morse, you handle those. I'm going to call Thursday and see if the victim's been found yet." Jakes moved off before Morse could protest being left with all the grunt work and he rolled his eyes, turning to the secretary.

"Could I please have the files of everyone on this list?" Thirty two files stacked up on a desk later he looked over them, wishing he could have a lackey of his own to look through them all for him. Oh well, nothing to it but to do it. He thanked the secretary, took a seat, and opened up the first folder. 

He was ten in when Jakes got back. "They found Andrea Meyers. Same story, just like the other two. Woke up at some point this morning around twelve hours after she was taken, raped, and then dumped just behind a supermarket. Thursday wants us to go talk to the witness when we're done here."

"Witness?"

"Apparently Andrea's rescuer actually saw the car as it was driving off." Jakes took a seat on the other side of the table and opened up the next file. The room fell into silence except for the sound of their pens scratching down the occasional name. The end result was twenty six names- less than thirty two, but still twenty five too many. Jakes looked at the list and groaned. "That's a lot of leg work to handle in two days."

"Maybe that witness can give us more to go on." Andrea Myers had been dumped along the back side of a small local supermarket. It seemed like their rapist was getting bolder every time- no doubt because the CID hadn't had any leads until now and had yet to even come close to finding him. She had been found by an employee taking out the trash. 

He was a teenage boy with curly red hair and a smattering of freckles so strong it nearly looked like a tan. He had a tendency to pinch his mouth whenever he was remembering something. "Well, I came outside a little before ten, 'cause that's when we open and the boss likes the trash out before then. Anyway," he continued hurriedly, realizing that they didn't care about when the boss wanted the trash out, "just as soon as I stepped out the door I heard this car screech up and the door slammed."

"What did the car look like?" The detectives tried not to look too eager, but inside they were hoping that maybe they finally had something. 

"It was a Morris- I like cars so I recognized it- and it was painted sky blue. I saw some of the registration. It ended with 59B. I wondered what it was doing out behind the store so I stayed behind the dumpster. This dark haired guy got out and opened up the trunk. He pulled something out, I couldn't see what it was, and then he got back into the car and sped off. As soon as I saw that girl I thought she was dead, so I chased after his car to try and get the license but he was moving too quick."

"What did you do after that?"

"Well, I went over to see if the girl was still alive and when I realized she was I ran back inside and called the police. Is she okay? She's not gonna die is she? I mean, she didn't _look_ injured."

"She'll be fine," Jakes assured him. "If you think of anything else you remember just give this number a call." He handed the boy a business card with Thursday's telephone number on it and he and Morse left. They stopped back by the hospital, picked up Thursday, and told him the news. 

"That's brilliant. As soon as we get back I'll ask Bright to issue an alert. One of the uniforms has got to spot it pretty quick; sky blue is a distinctive color. You two split up that list and call around. See who has an alibi and who doesn't. We've got to narrow that list down more."

He vanished into Bright's office as soon as they got back, requesting that all the patrol officers be on the lookout for a sky blue Morris Minor with a registration ending in 59B. His subordinates split the list in half again and got their phones off the hooks.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you believe that I actually do know the difference between Friday and Sunday? Because I do, really, but my Thursday Friday and Saturday was spent up at Black Mesa (a.k.a the highest point in the state) for the Oklahoma Academy of Sciences meeting where we didn't even have cell reception let alone internet. So I didn't just forget, I promise. I actually couldn't post til now. 
> 
> Oh, and just FYI, y'all are gonna start hating me so hard after chapter seven, but for now enjoy chapter six, wherein I throw in yet another red herring for them, our heroes get a bit of a two-fer, and Jakes and Morse act like the four year olds they really are.

By the end of the day they had managed to get hold of seven men, five of whom had solid alibis for at least one rape. Two had been going to the same dancers' club as Sherrie Carter and three had been taking out a date Saturday evening when Patricia Powell was kidnapped. Thursday dawned grim and foggy, much like the men at Cowley CID. They had a day and half (give or take a few hours) to find out who the rapist was and they still couldn't even find out why he was picking the victims he did.

None of the women had anything in common and as far as they could discern they didn't have any _one_ in common either. While Sherrie and Andrea went to Oxford, Patricia had never been to university in her life. They were from different hometowns and lived in different neighborhoods. Hell, Andrea Meyers lived on the opposite side of town.

They had gotten back to their phone calls and tracked down a few more, including another club member and three more who had been with a date. "So, only sixteen now," Jakes grunted as he hung up the phone. "I've got a few who claim to have been alone, a few who said they were out at a bar, and one who told me that he was hiding from a UFO trying to get inside his bathroom." Morse snorted.

"Did it work?"

"Apparently so, according to Mr. Morris anyways- though I'm thinking he's probably got at least one problem bigger than UFOs." Across the room, Morse was having much the same luck. They were dealing with uni students, who spent their weeknights sequestered in their rooms studying and went out partying on the weekends. All told, they ended up with ten who had no account for their locations.

"So, what does our list look like?" Thursday asked, leaning against Morse's desk. The names were written down on the side of the blackboard, alongside the pictures and names of one of their victims. 

"Right now there are ten different men who have no alibis for the days of the rapes." Morse took a deep breath and recited off the list. "Andrew Alderman, Michael Norris, Jacob Housey, Martin Miller, James St. Clare, Anthony Carter, Stephen Bridger, Jeffrey Coleman, Matthew Reynolds, and Steve Klein." 

"All of them claim to have been alone, studying, out of town, or at a club when the girls were taken," Jakes continued. "However, none of them drive Morris Minors."

"That's because it was stolen." They all looked up as Strange entered the room with a report in his hand. "This just came in. One of the patrols up on the north side of town found a sky blue Morris Minor registered to Marcia Stevenson that was reported missing last week. There's mud in the tires even though she claims it's never left the city. The reg ends with 59B."

"Well, it sounds like that's our car," Thursday remarked grimly.

"But why dump it now?" Morse asked curiously. "He's got more attacks planned, we know that from the pills he stole." 

"The boy taking out the garbage saw the car and chased after him," Thursday responded. "He'd have known we were out looking for it. He'll probably head out of town to steal another one, or start using his own."

"He knows we're onto him now, though," Jakes interjected. "By now he's had to have heard something at the lab. He's going to be extra careful from here on out."

"Or extra reckless," Morse replied. Thursday sighed wearily. 

"Start up again with the ones who claim to have been out of town for one of them. Those should be the easiest to eliminate, provided they left town to visit someone. Go talk to them in person, see who looks nervous and who doesn't." After lunch they went around to the ones who said they'd been traveling and after a few phone calls they were able to strike two names off the list. Martin Miller had been visiting his mother in a Manchester hospital and Steve Klein had been going to his brother's bar mitzvah in London.

The remaining eight had alibis that would have been at best very difficult and at worst impossible to confirm. "So even with all that we've still got seven names that we don't need to be worrying about," Jakes muttered as they got back in the Jag.

"It's better then what we started out with- every man in Oxford." Jakes rolled his eyes. 

"Fair point. And we still have til tomorrow evening. We've got to find this guy before we all turn to crime ourselves." It was a sarcastic remark but it was also true. The longer they went knowing this guy was probably watching his next victim right now the more frustrated they all got. They returned to the station and double checked each remaining suspect for any criminal record or complaint. 

"I might have something," Morse announced, holding aloft a page and hanging up his phone. "One of our suspects, Anthony Carter, had a complaint filed against him when he lived in London by an ex-girlfriend of his. She stated that he threatened her when they fought one evening. Apparently he said he would kill her." Thursday lifted an eyebrow.

"Well, why don't we go and have a word with Mr. Carter, then?" Carter lived in a small flat building off of High Street, your typical 'poor college student' sort of place. He opened the door, eyeing them warily.

"Can I help you?" They held up their badges.

"Yes, maybe you can," Thursday said, noting the increasingly wary look that came over his face. "May we come in?" Although he looked like it was the last thing in the world that he wanted to do, Anthony pulled open the door and let the trio into the sitting room. 

Thursday noted as they entered that he didn't fit the physical description, apart from his brown hair. He was at least two inches taller than Morse and built like a brick outhouse, while their suspect was reported to be three inches shorter and slim. Of course Thursday was also well aware that eye witness accounts could be completely wrong. It would all depend on whether or not Carter had some way of proving his whereabouts. 

"When we phoned, you said you were in the library until ten studying last Wednesday night," Morse started. Jakes took up the refrain.

"Only we did a little checking- the library closed at eight that evening. A pipe burst in the attic."

"So where were you really?" Thursday finished off, fixing Carter with a steady glare. "And why did your ex-girlfriend file a complaint against you for threatening to kill her?" Carter's mouth dropped open.

"That was five years ago! I didn't think it mattered anymore."

"That's not an explanation, Mr. Carter."

"I'd gotten a little drunk that evening, and when I got back to her place we fought. I never meant anything by it, I was just wasted and angry."

"And the library?" Morse asked.

"I... uh."

"I suggest that you tell us the truth, Mr. Carter," Thursday told him sternly. "Unless you're confessing to murder it'll be better than what you're under suspicion of now." 

"I was at a place with a friend of mine."

"'At a place'?" Jakes repeated disdainfully.

"It was a gambling joint," Carter admitted. "In the basement of a pub on Fifth Street."

"Not a legal place, I'm assuming." Thursday said the rhetorical statement everyone was thinking. Carter shook his head.

"The bookie can tell you I was there from seven to ten thirty on Wednesday. There was a boxing match on."

"The bookie's name?" 

"Mickey Taylor."

"We'll call him up. If he confirms your alibi you're off the hook- for the attacks. There'll be a PC by later to talk about the illegal gambling." They left and found Mickey Carter, a slightly greasy fellow who, under the slightest pressure, promptly folded and backed up Carter's alibi- and was arrested for bookmaking. 

"So, that's one more name off of the list." Morse sounded a mix between hopeful and relieved. "And Strange told me apparently that gambling joint was one of the biggest in town."

"Kinda like closing a door and opening a window, isn't it?" Jakes remarked, blowing out a streamer of smoke in Morse's direction with a smirk. Morse waved the smoke out of his face and, when Thursday had his back turned, decided that he would go for the inelegant response and made a rude gesture back at the other man. Jakes laughed silently and gave Morse a wink. The constable stared at him open-mouthed. 

"What are you, five?" he hissed. 

"Six at least," Jakes returned. Both men looked away from each other when Thursday turned back around, watching them with a flat stare.

"Do I even want to know what you two were arguing about this time?" he asked with the weary tone of a long suffering father. 

"We weren't arguing about anything sir," Jakes responded. "It was just a conversation." Morse mentally crossed his fingers, hoping that Jakes hadn't just dug them in deeper with his blatant lie, but Thursday was too busy to care about what his subordinates were, inevitably, bickering over. 

"Just get back to work and try not to damage each other." Thursday went to give Bright an update and left the two men to their business. 

"I was wrong," Morse said as soon as the door shut. "You're actually only four."

"Yeah? So what does that make you, three?" Jakes darted off before Morse could retort. That evening, like all of them since the Thursday before, ended in frustration. The remaining seven men had no way to account for where they claimed to have been and had never (officially, at least) given any indication that they were inclined towards violence. Despite all their efforts the CID was still stuck in a rut, and out there, they knew, a rapist was waiting.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jakes has a moment of genius and then things promptly get FUBARed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all are gonna hate me so much after this chapter and I'm going to collect all of your hatred and roll around in it like a buffalo at its favorite wallow. Again, sorry for the tardy posting, but my computer crashed and was just generally acting like a little cow so I'm posting this from my parents' computer. Good times... See you next Friday, when you might actually hate me even more! ^-^

Casual conversation was almost nonexistent Friday morning. No one was in the mood to speak out of anything other than necessity and even that was stilted and rushed. The men from forensics had phone to say that they hadn't found any fingerprints in the stolen Morris, which was being returned to its true owner today. 

Morse had the files of the seven remaining suspects spread out in front of him, not really expecting anything new to spring out at him but reading over them all the same. Andrew Alderman, Michael Norris, Jacob Housey, James St. Clare, Stephen Bridger, Jeffrey Coleman, and Matthew Reynolds. One of them was a man who had raped three women already and was at that very moment planning his fourth attack. He rubbed a hand across his face.

"Maybe we should throw darts," he muttered irritably. He flipped the folders shut and stacked them up on a corner of his desk, sick to death of looking at them. While he had decided to look through the suspects again, Jakes had taken it upon himself to look over the victims once again, determined to find out why the man chose to abduct the women that he did. If Morse had to guess, he would have said that by the end of the work day Jakes was going to smoke his way through a whole pack of cigarettes.

The man in question ran a hand through his hair, glaring daggers at the blackboard and muttering loudly. "Three victims- different ages, different jobs, different home towns, different addresses, different _everything_. What the hell is connecting them? There's got to be something, some reason he takes them." Morse remained silent, typing up the latest report. He knew that Jakes was talking to himself and not to anybody else. 

For his own part, Morse still couldn't fathom why he was picking who he did. Maybe Jakes would finally figure it out- he had to remember that Jakes was a detective in his own right and though he and the sergeant might not get along spectacularly he was good at what he did. He resumed his paceless clacking when a sharp inhale caught his attention. "Got something?"

"Maybe," Jakes replied. "Come over here." Morse stood up, cracked his back, and went over to the blackboard, where he was greeted by three color pictures of the victims. "I've been trying to figure out why the hell he takes who he does. I looked through _everything_ and there's only one thing that all of them share- hair color." Morse looked over the pictures; Jakes was right.

"They're all brunettes." The sergeant nodded.

"And not only that. they're all the same shade: practically black. I've looked over every inch of their profiles and that's the only thing they have in common in any way."

"Where's Thursday? You should tell him. I'll keep looking over the lab records." Morse leaned against the desk and ran an ink smudged hand through his hair. Three rapes in one week and unless their attacker decided to change plans dramatically the next victim would probably be reported missing before they even got off work. Would they finally find her, he wondered, or would they keep on having to wait like the others?  
\-----  
It had been a long and busy day at the Oxford Union Bank and now as it neared eight p.m. the lobby was getting ready to close- much to the joy of the employees. "God I'll be glad for this day to be over," one woman remarked, checking her makeup in her pocket mirror. 

"You say that every day Tammy," Joan Thursday replied. "I don't know why you didn't get a job somewhere else."

"The pay's better here," Tammy retorted with a smirk. "Want to go for drinks after we get off?" Joan gave her a friendly push.

"Maybe for _a_ drink, I've got to be home before dark. Parents' rules." 

"Oh come on Joan, you're an adult. Just phone and tell them you're going to be late. Please?" Joan sighed halfheartedly.

"Oh alright. But if my dad's home I'm telling you now there's no way I'm going to be able to go." When they got off shift, Joan called the house, managing to wheedle her mother into letting her stay out.

"Be back by ten, and no later than ten thirty. If you aren't I'm calling your friend's house." 

"Okay mum, I'll be back by then. Love you. Bye." Joan hung up and turned to Tammy. "Got to be back by ten thirty."

"Let's go then, there's this new place down the road I want to try out." Apparently plenty of other people wanted to try it out as well because the place had a line out the door when they got there. The wait was short, though, and the drinks were good. "I told you this would be fun," Tammy reprimanded her cheerfully as she carried over two glasses. 

"I know, I know, I should have listened." Joan took a sip of her drink and looked around. She'd told herself that she was only going to have one drink and go home, but Tammy insisted that she stay and dance for a while. Joan finished her drink and debated getting one more (they really were good) but she remembered her promise to her mother. She would get a glass of water and then leave. On her way back to the table, she ran headlong into a dancer, spilling some of the water down her front.

Grumbling under her breath, she put the glass down on the table and went to find a towel to dry off with. A few minutes later she got back, still grumbling, and downed the rest of the glass in one go, looking around for Tammy. She was thoroughly ready to go home. She finally spotted Tammy, dancing with a friend she'd run into. "I'm going to go, Tammy." 

"Aw, but you haven't even been here an hour!" her friend protested. 

"I know, but I really don't want my mum to worry. And besides, I can come back with you later." Tammy pouted but gave in. 

"Alright, just give me a few minutes and I'll walk you home."

"You don't have to leave just because-"

"No, it's safer that way. And like you said, we can come back some other time."

"Alright, but I'm going outside to wait. I need some fresh air." Her head was getting oddly fuzzy but she chalked it up to the club's air- alcohol, cigarette smoke, and a lot of people in close proximity. She'd feel better once she was outside. She reached the door and pushed it open, nearly plowing into a couple who were entering with a muttered 'sorry', and dropping down onto a bench. Instead of feeling better though, Joan's head only got fuzzier and she yawned softly. Oh come on; it wasn't even nine yet, there was no way she should be so tired now.

But, she mused, apparently she was, because after a few minutes her head started drooping and she had trouble keeping her eyes open. Well, it could have been a few minutes- for all she knew it could have been an hour. She had lost all sense of time. She was just _tired_. 

She didn't know how much longer it was when the door pushed open. She looked up, expecting it to be Tammy, but it was a man instead, young and handsome with dark hair. He stopped in front of her. "Your friend asked me to give you a lift home." He pulled her up by the arm and somewhere in the back of Joan's mind it occurred to her that there was something really really off about the situation, but her body was vaguely numb, unable to resist as she was tugged over to a car.

She felt the man push her into the back seat and registered that she was tilting over sideways. And then, she fell asleep...


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not _saying_ this chapter is accidentally a week off but I'm not _not_ saying it either. My apologies, my brain confused a day or seven and here we are. :( Hopefully the chapter'll make up for the wait, and I'll see you next Friday!

Morse was ready to drop everything about this case into a bonfire and then dance around it. A quick glance at the clock showed nine thirty. Thursday was still sequestered in his office but Morse figured he'd head home soon. Win would be waiting for him and no doubt he would try to get his DS and his DC to catch some rest as well. 

None of them had been sleeping properly since this case had started up. Sleep amounted to a handful of hours they caught when they could no longer keep their eyes open. Thursday's door was open and when he looked in Morse could see his boss asleep in his chair. Jakes was nowhere to be found.

Morse sat down at his desk, suppressing a yawn and he decided that, well, if Thursday was going to take a rest than he could manage one as well. After all, loathe as he was to admit it, they'd done everything they could until the next victim turned up missing.

_She's probably already been taken,_ he thought glumly. _And tomorrow she'll turn up just like the others, too late for us to do anything._ It was a grim thought, but it was what he fell asleep on. 

He felt a persistent shake on his shoulder. "Morse. Wake up." The first thing he noticed was the hard cut of the features on Jakes' face. His stomach sank.

"Who is it?"

"Joan." 

Morse didn't usually swear- he tried to aim for loftier expressions of anger- but he let out one very specific, very loud expletive that Jakes hadn't known he'd ever heard before. After a few seconds to calm down, he looked around. "Where's Thursday?"

"Gone home- Bright took him right off the case but I managed to talk him into keeping us on. Barely."

"Are you acting DI now?" Jakes nodded. Morse stood up and grabbed his coat, shaking the sleep out of his limbs. "Where are we headed?" 

"To a friend of hers. Last one who saw her." Joan's friend, a woman by the name of Tammy, lived just a few streets down from the Thursdays. She had obviously been expecting them because she opened the door before they had even knocked on it. "Tammy Miller?" She nodded.

"Come in, Joan's dad told me you'd be coming by." She had clearly been crying and she was still sniffing when she led them to the couch. "I- oh, she told me she didn't want to go out but I told her it would be fun."

"Where exactly did you go?" Jakes asked.

"That new club off High Street, Broadmoor's. We got there a few minutes after eight; she said her mum told her to be home by ten thirty at the latest so she was only going to have one drink and then leave."

"And is that what she did?" Tammy nodded. 

"Yeah, at least that I know of. She had some water too. We were only there for about thirty minutes before she wanted to leave. She said she was feeling sick." The men remembered something Dr. Harrison had told them about the medication, about alcohol being a depressant, so if you drank before you ingested the drug it would make it faster acting.

"About eight forty-five, I think, she came up and said that she wanted to go home. I told her to wait for me and we'd go home together and she said she'd be waiting outside. She wanted some fresh air. Only I got distracted and I didn't leave until nine. She was right outside, I thought she'd be fine. When I came out she was gone and I just figured she'd decided to go home without me, until her mum called half an hour ago. I'm so sorry," she finished, bursting into fresh tears. 

"It wasn't your fault, Miss Miller," Morse reassured her, putting a hand on her shoulder. They left the house, standing in the cool evening dark. Jakes checked his watch. 

"Eleven o'clock. We've got ten hours, Morse. I hope you can do good work under pressure."

"We'll see," the constable muttered. Truthfully, he knew that if they didn't find this bastard before anything happened to Joan he would never be able to forgive himself. 

"No seeing," Jakes retorted bluntly. "Just doing. If there's anyone who can figure this out in the time we've got it's you, so don't you go losing confidence in yourself, not right now." For Jakes, Morse supposed, that was a real pep talk. He took in a deep breath.

"Are we going back to the station or over to Thursday's?"

"Thursday's; I told him I'd keep him in the loop. It's the only way I could calm him down enough to get him to listen to Bright." Morse didn't envy having been asleep when the call came in. Fred Thursday, when he was angry, was a force of nature. 

It was a short drive to the Thursday home that was made in tense silence. Jakes parked on the curb and both men sat motionlessly for a few seconds, collecting their thoughts. Even though they knew the anger wasn't directed at them, they were still slightly afraid of coming face to face with their boss. Finally Jakes unbuckled and looked to his companion with a raised eyebrow. "Time to go and face the music."

"As long as it's not the Funeral March." 

Once more the door was opened for them before they even reached it to knock, this time by Sam, whose face was unnaturally pale. "Come on in," he told them. "Dad's been waiting for you. He and mum are in the sitting room." Thursday could be formidable even when worried. When both worried and angry he made for a figure no one in their right mind would want to cross. He had been staring out the window but turned to face them as soon as the door opened, wordlessly asking for the latest news. 

"She went to a club called Broadmoore's on High Street with a friend of hers," Jakes recited, not missing a beat. "She had one drink and a water and then told her friend she wasn't feeling well and went outside to wait for her at eight forty five. The friend was going to drive her home but when she left at nine Joan was already gone."

"She called me when she got off work," Win said, holding back tears. Thursday put both his hands on her shoulders and gave them the most reassuring squeeze he could. "I told her to stay with her friend and be back by ten thirty at the latest. When she didn't show up I thought she'd just decided to stay out as long as she could. But then I called, and her friend said she was home, and I..." She began to cry and, out of instinct, all three of the men moved to comfort her. 

She eventually calmed down enough for Thursday to walk them to the door. He stood, back lit by the hall lamp, an even more imposing figure than he usually was. "Catch this bastard," he told them sharply, voice cutting through the air like a knife. "Find him and bring my girl home." They nodded and left.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who posted her chapter on time (novel change)- this gal, that's who. You remember that clue I mentioned a few chapters back that I swore nobody would spot? Yeah, nobody spotted it. XD You'll figure out what it is in this chapter, along with Morse having a little mini-prophetic dream. I wish this chapter were longer but there's no good way to add any more length to it without making the break really awkward and poorly placed. 10's also a little short but 11 and 12 are both a lot longer so bear with me. Happy Friday! ^-^

As they left the Thursday residence, Jakes once again behind the wheel, the headlights flashed off of a metal sign next door had put up, momentarily blinding Morse. It was a real estate poster, advertising the house for sale. In the back of Morse's brain, a small bell went off, telling his that that meant something, and he ought to pay attention. 

Back at the station, with the bell still ringing away in the back of his head like a mosquito buzzing next to his ear, Morse taped up pictures of their remaining suspects. Andrew Alderman, Michael Norris, Jacob Housey, James St. Clare, Stephen Bridger, Jeffrey Coleman, and Matthew Reynolds. It was one of them, it had to be. "It's eleven thirty on a Friday," Morse spoke, thinking out loud more than anything. "I'd guarantee some of them are still awake."

"You've a fair point," Jakes replied, taking note of the phone numbers. "Let's see who's still in and who can tell us where they were at nine." After a few phone calls, they managed to get rid of two names. Matthew Reynolds was in Dorset visiting family and he'd left at noon; a call to his parents' home confirmed that he'd arrived there early in the evening and been in the house since dinner. "So that's one name off," Jakes remarked. "So who's the other?"

"Michael Norris," Morse responded, hanging up his own phone. "He was out to dinner on a date."

"The girl could be covering for him."

"With his boyfriend." 

"Ah. So not him. And then there were five," he muttered softly, staring at the cork board and heaving a sigh.

"And all five of them are 'out at clubs'. Nice and uncheckable." Around midnight, a PC came hurrying into the room.

"Sergeant Jakes, I have something for you." He handed Jakes a sheet of paper, which the other man read with a raised eyebrow.

"Well, it seems we can mark one more off the list. Stephen Bridger was just booked in for fighting. Seems he came into a bar on 9th Street as soon as it opened, got increasingly soused, and picked a fight with a fellow who outweighed him by thirty pounds."

"And he's going to university?" Morse asked rhetorically. 

"Low standards?" Jakes suggested with the slightest of grins. "Or cold hard cash, more likely. Either way, his stupidity is good for us. Now we've only got _three_ more names to get rid of."

The time seemed to tick by at twice what it should have been running at; when the clock came near to striking one, Morse made a suggestion. "Maybe we could set a tail on all four of them, see which one heads to an abandoned industrial building in the morning." But Jakes shook his head reluctantly. 

"There's not near enough time for that now. We wouldn't even get approval until after-" he cut off abruptly, unwilling to say the words. _Until after he's raped Joan_. He sucked in a sharp breath and pinched his eyes shut. They sank into a thick silence, both men hoping more than anything that they wouldn't let their boss down. They had sworn to him that they wouldn't let anything happen to Joan and Morse and Jakes were both men of their words. They would die sooner than break them.

One ticked by into two, which ticked by towards three and found both of them struggling to stay focused. Finally, Jakes stood and strode out to the front desk, returning a few moments later. "I've told the desk sergeant to wake us at four sharp. We need to get some sleep or we'll be completely useless for anything."

Morse began to protest but Jakes cut him off sharply. "Neither of us are getting anywhere. Driving ourselves past the point of exhaustion teasing the same facts over and over is only going to impair our abilities, not help them. Besides," he added with just a hint of a smirk, "you look about ready to fall over and die." Reluctantly, Morse nodded his acceptance. He leaned forward and fell asleep before his head hit the desk.

_Morse was wandering aimlessly, something that he never really indulged in. He liked to know where he was going, but he didn't now and it disconcerted him. He wandered down the darkened, signless street, looking left and right. Voices called to him out of the fog, young women pleading for help, but the door was locked to every building he tried to enter._ Buildings, buildings, buildings, _a voice muttered in the back of his head, echoing from the same spot as the bell that had been going off all night._

_Thursday's house loomed out of the darkness, and then Andrea Meyers', Patricia Powell's, and lastly Sherrie Carter's. Somehow, he had found them all. And finally at the end of the nameless road stood an old warehouse with a metal roof, mocking him. Somehow they were all connected. They had to be. Words drifted through Morse's thoughts._

_"The salon next door put up for sale and moved to the other side of town..."_

_"The only thing of note that's gone on in this neighborhood for the last two weeks has been Patricia's neighbor across the way putting her house up for sale."_

_The glint of light coming off the realtor sign when they pulled away from the Thursdays'. Morse inhaled sharply, spinning around._

Morse launched himself upright when the PC shook him, startling the poor man out of his wits. Morse didn't bother to apologize, standing up and striding over to Jakes' desk with wide eyes.

"I know it; I know how he's been finding them."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is short and boring and I apologize for that but the action picks back up in the next one, in which we meet the second biggest douchebag in Oxfordshire. Until then, my friends, farewell.
> 
> ^-^

Jakes sprang out of his chair. "How?"

"A real estate company," Morse told him, hurrying to elaborate. "Each girl has had someone near them who's put their home up for sale recently. You remember Patricia Powell, when you went and found the little old lady?" Jakes nodded slowly.

"Yeah, and she mentioned that the only thing out of the ordinary was Patricia's neighbor across the street putting his house up for sale."

"And when we were leaving Thursday's house I saw the headlights reflect off of a realtor sign next door," Morse continued, gaining steam. "That also explains how he can access the building he takes them to."

"But what about Sherrie Carter?" Jakes asked. "She lived in the student dorms. Or Andrea Meyers."

"I don't know about Andrea, I wasn't paying attention when we drove off, but the manager at the Royal Heights Inn mentioned to me that the hair salon next door had put up for sale and it was costing them business. Sherrie was there every single Thursday evening."

"Before and after it was put on the market," Jakes finished. A look of dawning comprehension came across his face. "If all of those places are being sold by the same company-"

"-we could have our connection."

"I'll call Thursday- he told me he'd be up all night and he'll be wanting to know anyway. You call around and get a list of all the realty companies in Oxford."

"What about the records office?" Morse asked. "We need to get in there and see if any of the suspects worked for a real estate agency."

"Still under for repairs," Jakes replied. "I'll ask around and see if I can get anyone to let us in though." He grabbed up his phone and called Thursday, who answered on the first ring.

"Hello?"

"It's Jakes, sir. Can you do me a favor? Your neighbor's house is for sale, what's the name of the real estate company?" 

"Just a minute. I assume you'll explain all this when I get back?" he asked, in the tone of voice that left no doubt that it would be explained when he got back. The phone thunked as it came to rest on the end table and in the background Jakes could hear the front door open and shut. A minute later, Thursday was back. "McKinney Realty."

Jakes scribbled down the name and relayed their development to Thursday, who whistled softly. "It's no wonder we didn't catch that before." Jakes laughed shortly.

"Yeah, it may not be as obscure as opera references but it's probably right up there. I'm trying to find someone who can let us into the records office to look up an employee list but it's long going."

"Try city hall instead," Thursday advised him. "Go straight to the owner once you know for sure if this is how he's been finding them."

"Yes sir." Jakes hung up the phone and wrote down the addresses they needed to visit. He waved to Morse, who cut off his conversation and looked at him, eyebrows arched. "We've got a possible," the sergeant told him. "McKinney Realty is handling the sale across from Thursday's house. Let's check the other addresses; if they're all the same we'll go to city hall and find out who the boss is. See if there're any names he'll recognize."

"McKinney isn't any of the names on the suspect list," Morse mused. "He must be an employee; how likely is it that the boss will recognize one employee?"

"It's worth a shot," Jakes responded grimly. Morse thought idly as they drove along that they were really racking up a petrol bill for this case with all the driving back and forth they had been doing; he shook his head, clearing out the flippant thoughts. He really needed to catch up on his sleep once this case was done.

_Which it will be, today,_ he swore to himself. He wasn't going to let anything happen to Joan, and he knew that Jakes was just as determined as he was to see this case have a good outcome. This guy wasn't going to get away with this anymore. 

Their first stop was High Street and the Royal Heights Inn, and then Patricia Powell's neighbor. Both of them were up for sale and being marketed by McKinney Realty. They had gotten a uniform doing his rounds to check Andrea Meyer's house and he'd left a message for them when they got back to the station: McKinney, same as the others. The sergeant and the constable shared a victorious grin.

"We've got it."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations are had, the actual biggest douchebag in Oxford is unmasked, and Jakes seriously considers the value of breaking noses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late, but yesterday I didn't even have the time required to sit down and breathe, so things were delayed... :( And here we are with the promised douchebag. Unfortunately. He was kind of a last minute addition when it occurred to me that I had way too many people being helpful for it to be a proper British mystery episode and I had to give them one last thing to fight their way through because I love tormenting you, my dear readers. :P Thus, he was born. Enjoy!
> 
> ^-^

After thoroughly harassing the night shift receptionist at Oxford City Hall, Morse and Jakes were able to acquire a phone number for Alexander McKinney, the owner of McKinney Realty. No one answered the office call, which wasn't much of a surprise, given that it was now five in the morning on a Saturday so they tried the house number. After a short conversation Jakes hung up, looking vaguely satisfied. 

"He tried to push us off until seven but I talked him back to six. We have to meet him at his house though. One of those posh places on the edge of town." They rolled into the driveway at six a.m. sharp and both detectives stretched as they got out, looking to where dawn was just barely starting to dribble into the sky.

"Two hours," Morse muttered under his breath. Jakes shot him a 'shut up' glare and strode up to the door, knocking on it firmly. It was opened by an honest-to-God butler (he didn't know people even _had_ butlers anymore), who led them into the sitting room. 

Alexander McKinney had been born into money, and determined to stay in it too, so in his twenties he had started up McKinney Realty; over the years he had proven successful and now ran one of the largest real estate agencies in Oxford. He was also, by all accounts, a rather petty bastard. "If this guy gives us any trouble I think I might break his nose," Jakes muttered to his companion as they headed down the long hallway. Morse just kept his mouth shut, not entirely willing to disagree. 

They were shown into an overdecorated room where they were promptly kept waiting for ten minutes before Jakes stood up, went over to the butler, and whispered something in his ear that had the man paling and leaving for his boss. He resumed his seat next to Morse, who looked at him with a raised eyebrow. Jakes returned the gesture. 

McKinney was in his early fifties, Morse reckoned, with dyed hair and a rather poorly disguised paunch who was visibly irritated about being awake this early in the morning. "Well now, what the devil is this all about?" he grumbled as he heaved himself into an armchair. Morse placed the files on the coffee table while Jakes explained the situation. McKinney stopped them halfway through.

"I do hope you're not suggesting that the company had anything to do with this?" After blinking once or twice in disbelief, Morse answered him.

"No sir, we're just following a lead. Not accusing the company of anything." Internally, he was starting to agree with Jakes; McKinney's nose really was far too straight for its own good. "Now, do any of these names sound familiar to you? An employee maybe?" He handed McKinney the list, and the man gave it the briefest of glances before tossing it back down on the table casually.

"None of them work for me, no, but Housey is familiar. The chief non-majority partner is a fellow by the name of Matthew Housey; the boy's uncle. He was bragging about his nephew getting into Oxford at our last dinner party, it was dreadfully boring. He has the lad intern for him on occasion, doing the grunt work." Jakes and Morse shared a look. 

"What sort of grunt work?" McKinney shrugged carelessly, only irritating the detectives further with his casual attitude. 

"Oh, mostly checking the properties, putting out the signs."

"So he would have access to the keys then?" 

"If it was a property he was sent to check, yes, but he has to return them as soon as he gets back."

"He could make a copy though," Jakes interjected. "We'll need a list of all the buildings you're currently selling, especially industrial or commercial places, and we'll need to talk to Matthew Housey and see which places he sent his nephew to. Could you give us his phone number?" McKinney bristled. 

"Now wait just a minute! You have no proof that my company had anything to do with this whole affair and I will not give you private information without a warrant!" Next to Morse, Jakes gave an undetectable sigh.

"So it's going to be like that," he murmured, too low for anyone but the DC to hear him. Out loud, he said, "Mr. McKinney, this had _nothing to do_ with your company; that's not what we're here about."

"Still, I dislike your assertion that the company would be careless enough to allow a rapist to gain access to his victims through us." 

Jakes breathed out something that sounded vaguely like "fuck it" and ran a hand through his hair, giving Morse a meaningful glare. Morse thought quickly.

"I hate to be impolite," he said, asking for the first thing that came into his head, "but is there a bathroom I could use?" McKinney scowled at him but turned to the butler and jerked his head. 

"He'll show you." Morse nodded his head and followed the butler out of the room. He could practically hear Jakes smiling as the door shut behind him.   
\-----  
Joan felt something like she was floating, drifting through her head space calmly. At the back of her mind, she knew she ought to be worried, but she couldn't remember what about. A still image flashed through her mind- her, outside a club, with a man. The man was giving her a ride.

But no, that wasn't right, because she was going home with Tammy so that her mum didn't get worried. Suddenly a flash of pain from her head cut through the floating sensation and she felt her consciousness thump back down to earth even though she was still not fully awake. 

But as she tried to bring her hand down (why on earth were her hands above her?) to try and get rid of the pain, she found that they couldn't be moved, no matter how hard she tugged at them. Her eyes were too heavy to open and even though she was drawing closer to wakefulness she still wasn't all the way there. But before she slipped back just a little further, she felt one solitary finger run down the side of her face, stopping just at the point of her chin.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me cause I'm beautiful. Hate me cause I leave you with terrible cliffhangers all the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah I've been having some trouble getting this posted today because my internet munches butts and my last week has been absolutely consumed by NaNoWriMo- which is going to be a common theme for the rest of the month, probably, since I am _determined_ to win this year. And speaking of buttmunches, we deal with those pretty heavily in this chapter. XD And now, without further ado, chapter twelve- the one right before all the shit gets _really_ real.
> 
> ^-^

Jakes smiled wolfishly at McKinney as he pulled out his lighter and popped a cigarette into his mouth. He blew out a small streamer of smoke. "Hope you don't mind," he remarked casually, tapping the end into a glass ashtray sitting on the coffee table. McKinney scowled at him but said nothing. 

"Now," he continued, replacing the cigarette in his mouth, "I just want to make one thing very clear for you, Mr. McKinney- you'll spend the rest of your day a lot more comfortably if you give us that list and Mr. Housey's telephone number."

"Oh yeah? And what will you do otherwise? You can't arrest me for anything." Jakes blew out another puff of smoke.

"No, but I can have you taken down to the nick as an accessory. I'm sure the media would love that. I can see the headlines now, can't you? 'Real estate boss held on suspicion of helping a rapist.' I bet it would make an interesting story." McKinney's solid eyebrows drew together.

"Are you threatening me?" he growled. Jakes shrugged languidly. 

"That depends on whether or not you give us what we want. Because if you don't then it'll be a promise, not a threat." It was then that McKinney, in a spectacular example of what not to do, decided to threaten right back.

"Just because you'd be holding me doesn't mean you could go through my things. So really, you need me because I'm the only one who can give you the list." Had Morse been in the room, he would have had to give Jakes a good amount of credit for how fast he managed to move in such a short space of time. In less than ten seconds he had McKinney, who was larger than him, but only in girth, pinned up against the wall, fists crumpling his lapels. 

"That," he hissed, "was not a good idea. Now maybe you don't seem to be aware of this, but you are currently helping a man get away with a criminal offence just so that you can go on a petty little ego trip while Jacob Housey gets ready to commit another rape and cause a lot of pain to some people who happen to be very close to me."

"Now," he continued, punctuating his speech by giving McKinney another shove against the wall, which resounded with a dull thud, "you have two options. Option one, you give us what we're asking for and we leave you to the rest of your fine day. As for the other option- you know, when I came in here I thought to myself, 'his nose is just too bloody straight'. I might find it within me to correct that now that we've got some alone time." 

He let go of McKinney, stepping back to the ashtray and taking a long draw on his cigarette. "So, which one of those would you like?"  
\-----  
Morse found Jakes waiting for him in the hallway when he got back from the bathroom, holding a slim folder and looking sufficiently pleased. He pushed himself off of the wall and headed for the door; Morse fell into step beside him. "Did you get the list?"

"Yup," Jakes replied, talking around his smoke. "All our dear friend Mr. McKinney needed was the right motivation and he was more than happy to help."

"He is still alive, right?" 

"More's the pity." They stopped at a phone booth and called Matthew Housey's phone number. He proved to be much more tolerable than his business partner and invited them to come over as soon as possible when he heard that it was an urgent police matter. He didn't live very far away from McKinney, thankfully, but it was nearing in on seven by the time they got there and both men could feel the clock counting down over their heads. 

Matthew Housey's home was smaller and friendlier and he greeted them at the door, leading them into the sitting room. "Now, may I ask what this is all about?" Jakes explained the situation as quickly and comprehensively as he could, and Housey had gone pale by the end. "Oh my lord," he muttered. "That foolish boy." 

"Has he had any problems with women in the past?" Morse asked, noticing that the uncle didn't seem as surprised as most people would have been. 

"Once, several years ago when he was in sixth form back in London," Housey replied, "he got reprimanded by the school for harassing a girl after she broke up with him. Nothing ever went on his record, though. I love my nephew, but he's always had a surfeit of self-confidence about him. I can't really say I'm terribly surprised it's finally gotten him into trouble. I just didn't think he would be so _stupid_." 

"He interned for you on occasion, didn't he?" Jakes asked, steering the conversation back the way it needed to go. He was acutely aware of the sun rising in the distance. "Did you by any chance have him check out these locations for you?" He handed Housey the list of properties being sold by victims' addresses. Housey nodded. "What about these? Any of them industrial or non-residential buildings?"

Housey scanned down the list, making the occasional mark. Finally he looked back up at them with a sigh. "Most of these properties are residential- I didn't like sending him too far out of town, but one day I'd come down with a cold when I was due to assess an old warehouse that was being sold. They're trying to rezone the place and build a clothing store on it but no one's bought it."

"Which address is it?" Morse asked, voice tinged with urgency. Housey circled it and handed the list back to them. With only a perfunctory thank you and a request to call the police and have them sent to the warehouse, they ran back to the Jag. They finally had their place- now they just had to pray that they didn't get there too late.   
\-----  
Joan was finally fully awake, and she was scared out of her wits, try as she might not to show it. She heard the door slam shut as her captor stepped outside and pulled as hard as she could on the handcuffs holding her around the pipe, trying to find any give there might be, but there was none. She forced herself to stop: it would do no good to injure herself further, and she could feel the bruises forming around her wrist

She was lying on a cold cement floor wearing nothing but her skirt and shirt from yesterday, blindfolded securely and waiting for the man to come back in. She'd read the papers and she knew what she was in for. As soon as he realized she was awake... She forced herself not to think about it and steered her thought away from her family. She knew they would be petrified and probably knew exactly what was going to happen to her. 

She channeled her fear, trying to find a way out of the horrible situation she was stuck in, and she remembered something she's read in the papers, some psychologist who said that the rapist was probably really arrogant. Maybe if she got him angry enough she'd get a chance to hurt him, anything to delay the inevitable. 

_They'll come for you!_ she told herself sternly. _Dad and the others would never let anything happen to you._ She forced herself to believe it in spite of the nagging doubt at the back of her head that they hadn't made it for the other girls, had they? She shook the thoughts out of her head and had just gotten her breathing back under control when the door opened once more.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the organic leavings collide with the oscillating air mover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sobs mindlessly* I'm sorry this is like friggin' two weeks late but between NaNoWriMo (which unfortunately I once again didn't finish on time) and a trio of upper-level science courses and a pair of choir performances I've been so busy getting online for anything except studying and checking my email has been functionally impossible until today. 
> 
> So this chapter focuses entirely on Joan, ends with a cliffhanger that'll probably make you want to track me down and kill me, and is the closest thing to an M rating there is in this story, so I'm gonna warn you right now: this does contain an attempted rape and some physical assault. If that's the sort of thing you can't handle for any reason, don't read this chapter. Other than that, same policy as usual.
> 
> ^-^

As she forced herself to focus Joan noticed that while her captor had handcuffed her he had left her legs free. She barely repressed a shudder as she put her plan into action. "Well, you're up early dear," her captor told her. She sensed him settling himself on the ground next to her, leaning against the pipe she was cuffed to. "You must not have taken all the medicine." 

"How did you get me to take it?" It was a distraction and a true question. Everything from last night after leaving the bank (in and of itself a vague memory) was as blank as a switched off TV screen.

"Oh, I can't tell you that. It'll spoil the secret." She flinched away as she felt him run a hand through her hair, scowling. In response, he grabbed a fistful of it and pulled her head back sharply, eliciting a wince. "Don't make this any harder than it has to be." His voice was neutral but there was a sharp undertone to it. He leaned in so close to her that she could feel his breath on the side of her face. Joan forced herself to sound derisive.

"Is that supposed to be some sort of joke? How _easy_ do you think you can make it?" She flinched again as she felt a sharp sting. The pain came afterwards, as she realized, somewhere off in the side of her mind, that he had slapped her. 

"Shut. Up." His voice had lost all neutrality now and taken on a commanding tone that showed he expected her to listen.

"No, I don't think I will actually," Joan retorted, sounding bolder than she felt. "Are you used to that? Women just shutting up and doing whatever you want them to?" She was rewarded with another, harder slap, one she knew would probably leave a bruise, but she kept on. "Is that why you have to tie them up, huh? Because you know as soon as the get to know you they'd run away as fast as they could."

It was a punch this time, followed by a low growl in her ear. "You're only making this worse for yourself, you know. Normally I leave them alive afterwards but if you keep up like this I might have to make an exception."

"No you won't," Joan retorted, sincerely hoping what she said was actually true. "If you kill me the police will come down on you like a pile of bricks. And besides, you like knowing that they remember afterwards, don't you?" If she got out of this alive, Joan swore that she would find the friend who dragged her to a seminar on abnormal psychology and buy them dinner for a week. "That's what you like best, knowing that they're suffering."

"Well, you're better than I gave you credit for dear," the man replied, trailing a hand lightly along her neck. She jerked away again, but this time in his direction, and she felt him force his lips onto hers. She kept her mouth shut tight, yelling inarticulate muffled protests and pulling herself in the opposite direction. He broke the kiss and she took the opportunity to headbutt him, getting immense satisfaction from hearing something thud.

"Bitch!" he yelled, backhanding her across the face. She winced as she felt a cut open up on her cheek, blood dribbling out of it to stain the cement floor- a permanent record of her presence here, no matter how it ended. But she didn't stop. She wasn't going to just submit, go down without a fight. She knew that, barring police intervention (although it was seeming increasingly likely divine intervention had a better chance) she _would_ be raped, but she didn't have it in her to just let it happen without pissing him off. 

The logical part of her knew that she was just making it worse for herself but she was angry, furious with the man who had raped three other women and was going after her now, and her comments were fueled by her anger and feelings of helplessness as she lay there on the floor. "Yeah? Maybe I'm a bitch but at least I'm not you," she spat. 

"I figured it out," she continued. "You have to kidnap women because you know there's not a chance in hell any of them would go to bed with you otherwise. You can't blame them- I wouldn't go with you if you were the last man left alive!" With an inarticulate roar, her captor swung himself so that he was straddling her and Joan felt fear shoot through her. This was it.

But instead, she felt his hands close around her neck, squeezing down and cutting off her air supply like a vice grip. "You can stop with the comments or I'll just wait until you pass out and take you then do it again when you're awake. How does that sound?" Joan thrashed underneath him, trying to find a way to loosen his grip. She bucked to the side, throwing him just far enough off balance that he had to let go of her neck to catch himself. 

Joan gasped for air, coughing and feeling her throat sting, and lashed out blindly with her feet. She lucked out and came into contact with some part of him that caused a pained grunt and knocked him onto his side. She pressed her advantage and kept kicking until he stumbled back to his feet and sat on her legs, pinning them. "You'll pay for that, girl," he snarled. He leaned forward and pushed her skirt up. 

Joan wrapped her hands around the pipe as best she could, gave an almighty shriek, and twisted her legs up and to the side as hard as she was capable of. She felt a sharp burst of pain from her right knee but she managed to prevent him from getting to her underpants. She prepared to pull back and do it again when an unanticipated blow to her stomach caused her to lurch forward, followed by a hard strike to her temple that had her seeing stars inside her blindfold.

Dazed and winded, she lost most of her coherent thought and all of her ability to fight back against her captor. She fell back against the cement floor, trying desperately to gather up her thoughts and try one more time before the inevitable happened, but it was no good. There was nothing else she could do.

She felt her captor retake his position sitting on top of her legs, on the alert for any more attempts from her to throw him off- not that Joan could have managed another attempt anyway. Dimly, she felt him reaching for her skirt again, pushing it up onto her stomach. She closed her eyes beneath the blindfold and began to pray.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PRAISE THE LORD I AM DONE WITH FINALS. Unfortunately life has been busy finding different ways to take a dump on me and things are kind of stressful right now. So enjoy, and forgive my abbreviated author's note.
> 
> ^-^

The address that Jacob Housey's uncle had given them, much to the detectives' displeasure, was on the other side of Oxford, near an old industrial area that had been abandoned almost eighty years ago. They were 'revitalizing' the area by turning the buildings into stores and lofts, provided you could furnish the money to live there. 

"How much longer, do you reckon?" Jakes asked tersely from the driver's seat. 

"Ten minutes, less if we go any faster," Morse replied. Jakes pressed the pedal down a little bit harder. Eight minutes later they skidded to a halt outside of a rickety looking warehouse. In the heyday of the Industrial Revolution it had been used to manufacture building supplies but that heyday was a long time ago now and the years hadn't exactly been kind to it. 

The exterior was made of a dull red brick that had been weathered down over time and covered on one side by a thick coating of moss and vines. It sat on a solid cement base and was capped by a corrugated tin roof, full of holes now but sturdy enough once. The men stepped out of the car, treading as quietly as they could on the gravel lot outside. The door was unlocked, Morse noticed, the bar that would secure the lock in place swinging wide. No doubt Housey didn't think anyone would be there to disturb him.

"I really, really hope this is the place," Jakes muttered across to his companion. 

"It's got to be," Morse replied, sounding more certain than he was. "Everything fits, it's got to be this place." Any doubts they might have had about their certainty were cast into the wind when they heard a loud scream come from inside the building. They looked at each other with shock for a split second and then took off, heedless now of any noise they made running up to the building. 

Jakes reached the door first, throwing it open wide with a yell. Housey was shocked by their presence for just a second, but he recovered quickly and lunged across the room, colliding with the sergeant like a battering ram. Jakes was ready for him, though, and dodged to the side, avoiding most of the impact that would have thrown him back against the wall otherwise. He pushed back against Housey and then twisted, tripping the other man and landing him hard on the ground. 

Housey swung out with his legs, knocking Jakes off balance and using the time it took the other man to right himself to regain his feet. He swung a punch at the sergeant, who managed to duck out of the way and barreled into Housey shoulder first, knocking the wind out of the other man and sending him to the ground with a thud. Jakes pressed his advantage and flipped Housey onto his back, cuffing him as quickly as possible.

Morse left Housey to Jakes- he had seen the DS fight before and he knew that unless Housey was a lot more impressive then he looked that Jakes would walk away from it just fine- and ran over to Joan, who was starting to struggle against the handcuffs again. "Joan, Joan can you hear me? Are you awake?" 

She was visibly battered, bleeding from a cut on her cheek, and had a ring of red around her neck that could only mean one thing. Her clothing was rumpled, her knee length skirt pushed up onto her stomach and leaving her underwear exposed to the air. He pulled her skirt back down, suppressing the flicker of rage that tore through him, and took off the blindfold.

Joan had never been happier to see someone in her life than she was to see Endeavour Morse in that moment. "You found me," she gasped. He gave her a tentative smile but turned serious again.

"Joan, did he...?" She shook her head.

"You stopped him, just in time. He was so close." She trailed off, still looking shocked. "Can you get me loose? My arms really hurt." Morse checked her wrists. There were already bruises blossoming where she had struggled against them and sore-looking scrapes in some spots. 

"Yeah, yeah as soon as I can get the key." He glanced over, checking on the progress of the fight, and saw Jakes cuffing Housey, pulling him to his feet and standing him against the wall. He stood up and strode over, face a hard mask.

"Where's the key to the cuffs?" he asked. Housey glared at him with a mix of petulance and arrogance. Morse stepped forwards, letting the hostility radiate off of his body. "I'm not going to ask you twice, Housey." The younger man scowled at him but eventually replied.

"In my right front pocket." Morse reached in, fished out the key, and hurried back over to Joan, unlocking her as quickly as he could. She eased her arms back down to their normal positions with a pained hiss, rubbing gently at her wrists. She tried to stand, but as soon as she did she found it impossible. She trembled from head to toe so violently that she couldn't keep her feet. Morse caught her and lowered her back down to the ground gently. 

"Best to just stay sitting," he told her before turning to Jakes. "I think I can hear sirens." Jakes nodded.

"I told him to call for an ambulance too." He turned sharply back to Housey, who had taken the opportunity to try and move discreetly away from the wall. "Take one more step and I'll knock your legs out from under you." He kept a watchful eye on Housey until he too could hear the sirens. Jakes pulled him roughly towards the door and all the fight seemed to leave the rapist as he realized that the game was up for good. 

Morse stayed with Joan, who was still shaking, rubbing her shoulder and trying to keep her calm. He knew that eventually the wall she put up, braced by the adrenaline rush she'd been experiencing, would fall down and the full force of what had happened- and what had nearly happened- would hit her all at once. "Where, uh... where's dad?" she asked.

"At your home," Morse told her. "Bright took him off the case as soon as we realized you were missing. He's waiting for us to call right now." Joan gave a shaky laugh. 

"He's probably going mad then. Will they have to take me to the hospital?" Morse nodded.

"Yeah, they'll need to check out your injuries." He concern put a frown on his face as he looked her over, noting the blood still dribbling from the cut on her cheek. "It looks like he did a number on you. Are you hurt anywhere else?"

"He, um, he punched me I think, in the stomach. And I think I might have twisted my knee." Two men bearing a stretcher came in, heading in their direction, and Morse helped Joan stand up. They got her onto the stretcher and into the ambulance, which pulled away- fortunately, they didn't have to use the siren. Jacob Housey was being loaded into a police car, hands still cuffed, glaring daggers at Jakes. The sergeant had caught the look and was leaning against the Jag, smirking back. 

"I don't think he likes you," Morse commented lightly, letting a grin cross his face. 

"Breaks my heart, that does," the DS retorted with a grin of his own. For reasons unknown, that struck both men as funny, and they began to laugh. The laughter grew and grew, fueled by a unique mixture of exhaustion, relief, and euphoria until they were both leaning against the side of the car for support. For the first time in a week and a half, with Joan safe and the rapist caught, they could finally relax. 

"I'll bet half the uniforms think we're insane," Morse commented once he'd gotten enough breath back to speak. He gestured to the officers still milling around, securing the scene and waiting for forensics. 

"Eh, worse things could happen," Jakes answered, still smiling. "Come on, let's head to the hospital. If we wait any longer to call Thursday he'll skin us alive." They got back in the car and followed the route the ambulance had taken back into town. Now that the euphoria had been worked out of their system, the exhaustion of their long night was creeping up on them. They arrived at the hospital at almost eight o' clock sharp, parking the Jag in the first spot they saw and heading into the A&E. 

Once inside, Jakes went to call Thursday while Morse went out in search of Dr. Harrison. He asked at the desk and was told that Joan was in a treatment room but he'd have to wait until Dr. Harrison gave them permission to go in. "Tell her to come and find me when she gets out," Morse told the receptionist, who nodded.

He went back to Jakes, who had just hung up the phone and turned to face him. "Any news?" 

"She's in treatment," Morse responded. "We've got to wait for Dr. Harrison to get us."

"Thursday's on his way over," Jakes told him. "I said we'd wait in the lobby." He was still grinning. When Thursday answered the phone and Jakes was finally able to say the words 'we caught him in time' he could actually _feel_ the weight lifting off of his chest. Both men took a seat in the uncomfortable plastic chairs scattered around the waiting room of the A &E, waiting for their S.O. to arrive. Morse sighed.

"I'm so tired I could go to bed right here." Jakes grunted in agreement. 

"I'm with you there. I don't care where it ends up happening, all I want to do is go somewhere and sleep until this time tomorrow." Thursday arrived at the hospital so fast that they knew he must have broken more than his fair share of traffic laws to make it when he did. 

"Where is she?" he asked.

"Treatment," Morse told him. "Dr. Harrison will come get us when you can see her. Are you alone?" Thursday nodded, taking the seat across from theirs. 

"Win and Sam finally fell asleep around three or four; I told them the news but they're waiting for her back at the house." They waited in a ready silence for a few more minutes until a soft set of footsteps heralded Dr. Harrison's arrival. All three men leapt to their feet, facing her alertly. She gave them a wide smile.

"You can see her now."


End file.
